
Oass_£R4Sl 
Book P C ? 






P E M S. 



the irraoE or 



< : JOHX HALIFAX, GENTLEMAN," 
&c. &c. 




10 



HEXRY BLACKETT, ESQ. 



21 fcokai of ^esgtri ana Crstcnrt from 

Stathn to iobMtr. 






1 



ran A¥TM®m OF 



35f?^ A 



foc.faz. 





reel . 



PREFACE. 



Many of these Poems, extending over a period 
of ten years, nave appeared anonymously in 
Chambers' Journal and elsewhere. The fre- 
quent reprinting of them, here and in America, 
has induced the author to collect, select, revise, 
and claim — her errant children. 

Whether they were worth collecting, and are 
realty u Poems" public opinion must decide. 



CONTENTS. 



Philip my King 


1 


Thoughts in a Wheat-field 


4 


Immutable 


8 


Four Years ... 


12 


The Dead Czar 


15 


The Wind at Night 


19 


A Fable 


24 


Labour is Prayer 


27 


A Silly Song 


30 


In Memoriam 


32 


-An Honest Valentine 


35 


Looking Death in the Face 


40 


By the Alma River 


47 


Kothesay Bay 


51 


Living : after a Death ... 


54 


In Our Boat 


58 


The Eiver Shore ... ... 


60 


A Flower of a Day 


62 


The Night Before the Mowing 


65 



CONTENTS. 


vii 




PAGE 


Passion Past 


67 


October 


70 


Moon-struck : a Pantasy 


72 


A Stream's Singing 


79 


A Eejected Lover 


82 - 


A Living Picture 


85 


Leonora 


89 


Plighted 


94 


Mortality 


97 


Life Returning : after War-time . . . 


99 


My Friend 


102 


A Valentine ... 


106 


Grace of Clydeside 


110- 


To a Beautiful Woman 


113 


Mary's Wedding 


117 


Between Two Worlds 


1.21 


Cousin Robert 


125 


At Last 


130 


The Aurora on the Clyde 


133 


An Aurora Borealis. Eoslin Castle 


137 


At the Linn-side. Eoslin 


110 


A Hymn for Christmas Morning . . . 


143 


A Psalm for New Year's Eve 


116 


Paithful in Vanity Pair 


119 


Her Likeness 


151 


Only a Dream 


156 


To my Godchild Alice ... 


159 



Vlll CONTENTS. 

SONNETS. 



PAGE 



Resigning ... ... ... ... 162 

Saint Elizabeth of Bohemia. I. and II. ... 163 

A Marriage Table ... ... ... 165 

Michael the Archangel. I. and II. ... 166 

Beatrice to Dante ... ... ... 168 

Dante to Beatrice ... .. ... 169 

A Question. I. and II. ... ... 170 

Angel Eaces. I. and II. ... ... 172 

Sunday Morning Bells ... ... ... 174 

Cceur de Lion. L and II. ... ... 175 

Guns of Peace ... ... ... 177 

David's Child ... ... ... 178 

A Word in Season ... ... .... 179 

The Path through the Snow ... ... 180 

The Path through the Corn ... ... 183 

The Good of it. A Cynic's Song ... 186 

Mine ... ... ... ... 189 

A Ghost at the Dancing ... ... 191 

My Christian Name ... ... ... 194 

uA Dead Baby ... ... ... 197 

For Music ... ... ... ... 199 

The Canary in bis Cage ... ... 201 

Constancy in Inconstancy ... ... 204 

Buried To-day ... ..'. ... 209 



CONTENTS. 



The MiU 


211 


North Wind ... 


213 


Now and Afterwards 


215 


A Sketch 


217 


The Unknown Country . . 


220 


A Child's Smile 


222'" 


Violets 


224 


Edenland 


..; ... 227 


The House of Clay 


229 


Winter Moonlight 


231 


The Planting 


233 


Sitting on the Shore 


237 


Eudoxia : Eirst Picture 


239- 


Eudoxia : Second Picture 


242-' 


Eudoxia : Third Picture 


245- 


Benedetta Minelli. I. The Novice 247- 


Benedetta Minelli. II. The Sister of Mercy 250- 


A Dream of Death 


25-1 


A Dream of Resurrection 


257 


On the Cliff-top 


260 


An Evening Guest 


262 


After Sunset 


264 


The Grar den- chair : two Portraits ... ... 267 : 


An Old Idea 


269 


Parables 


271 


Lettice 


274 


A Spirit Present 


276 



CONTENTS. 



A Winter Walk 


278 


Will Sail To-morrow 


2S0 


At Even-tide 


283 


A Dead Sea-gull : near Liverpool 


285 


Looking East. In January. 1858 


287 


Over the Hills and Ear Aw ay 


290 


Too Late 


292 


Lost in the Mist 


294 


Semper Eiclelis 


300 


One Summer Morning ... 


304 


-My Love Annie 


305 


Summer Gone 


307 


The Yoiee Calling 


311 


The Wren's Xest 


315 


A Christmas Carol 


317 


The Mother's Visits. Erom the Ereneh 


319 


A German Student's Euneral Hymn 


320 


Westward, Ho ! 


322 



POEMS. 



PHILIP 1IT KIXG. 

" AYho bears upon his baby brow the round 
And top of sovereignty." 

Look at me with thy large brown eyes, 

Philip my king, 
Round whom the enshadowing purple lies 
Of babyhood's royal dignities : 
Lay on my neck thy tiny hand 
With love's invisible sceptre laden ; 
I am thine Esther to command 
Till thou shalt find a queen-handmaiden, 

Philip my king. 



2 PHILIP MY KING. 

the day when thou goest a wooing, 

Philip my king ! 
When those beautiful lips 'gin suing, 
And some gentle heart's bars undoing 
Thou dost enter, love-crown'd, and there 
Sittest love- glorified. Rule kindly, 
Tenderly, oyer thy kingdom fair, 
For we that love, ah ! we love so blindly, 

Philip my king. 



Up from thy sweet mouth — up to thy brow, 

Philip my king ! 
The spirit that there lies sleeping now 
May rise like a giant, and make men bow 
As to one heaven- chosen amongst his peers : 
My Saul, than thy brethren taller and fairer, 
Let me behold thee in future years ; — 
Yet thy head needeth a circlet rarer, 

Philip my king. 



PHILIP MY KING. 6 

— A wreath not of gold, but palm. One day. 

Philip my king, 
Thou too must tread, as we trod, a way 
Thorny and cruel and cold and gray : 
Rebels within thee and foes without 
TTill snatch at thy crown. But march on, 

glorious 
Martyr, yet monarch : till angels shout, 
As thou sitt'st at the feet of God victorious, 

" Philip the king!" 



THOUGHTS m A WHEAT-FIELD. 

u The harvest is the end of the world, and the reapers are 
the angels." 

In his wide fields walks the Master, 
In his fair fields, ripe for harvest. 
Where the evening sun shines slant-wise 
On the rich ears heavy bending ; 

Saith the Master : " It is time." 
Though no leaf shows brown decadence, 
And September's nightly frost-bite 
Only reddens the horizon, 
" It is full time," saith the Master, 

The wise Master, " It is time." 



THOUGHTS IX A WHEAT-FIELD. 

Lo, lie looks. That look compelling 
Brings the labourers to the harvest ; 
Quick they gather, as in autumn 
Passage-birds in cloudy eddies 

Drop upon the sea-side fields : 
White wings have they, and white raiment, 
White feet, shod with swift obedience ; 
Each lays down his golden palm-branch, 
And uprears his sickle shining, 

" Speak, Master — is it time ?" 



O'er the field the servants hasten, 
Where the full-stored ears droop downwards, 
Humble with their weight of harvest ; 
Where the empty ears wave upward, 

And the gay tares flaunt in rows : 
But the sickles, the sharp sickles, 
Flash new dawn at their appearing, 
Songs are heard in earth and heaven, 



THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT-FIELD. 



For the reapers are the angels. 
And it is the harvest time. 



Great Master, are thy footsteps 
Even now upon the mountains ? 
Art thou walking in thy wheat-field ? 
Are the snowy-winged reapers 

Gathering in the silent air ? 
Are thy signs abroad, the glowing 
Of the distant sky, blood-reddened — 
And the near fields trodden, blighted, 
Choked by gaudy tares triumphant, — 

Sure, it must be harvest time ? 



Who shall know the Master's coming ? 
Whether it be at dawn or sunset, 
When night dews weigh down the wheat-ears, 
Or while noon rides high in heaven, 
Sleeping lies the yellow field ? 



THOUGHTS IN A WHEAT- FIELD. 

Only, may thy voice, Good Master, 
Peal above the reapers' chorus, 
And dull sound of sheaves slow falling, - 
" Gather all into My garner, 
For it is My harvest time." 



IMMUTABLE. 

" ^Yith wliom is no variableness, neither shadow 
of turning." 

Autumn to winter — winter into spring — ■ 
Spring into summer — summer into fall — 
Thus rolls the changing year, and thus Ave 

change ; 
Motion so swift we know not that we move. 
Till at the gate of some memorial hour 
We pause — look in its sepulchre to find 
The cast-oil shape that years since we called 

a T 99 

And start, amazed. Yet on ! we may not stay 



IMMUTABLE. \) 

To weep or laugh. All which is past, is 
past : 

Even while we gaze the simulated form 
Drops into dust, like inany-centuried corpse 
At opening of a tomb. 



Alack, this world 
Is full of change, change, change — nothing but 

change ! 
Is there not one straw in life's whirling flood 
To hold by, as the torrent sweeps us down, 
Us, scattered leaves ; eddied and broken ; torn 
Roughly asunder ; or in smooth mid -stream 
Divided each from other without pain ; 
Collected in what looks like union, 
Yet is but stagnant chance — stopping to rot 
By the same pebble till the tide shall turn ; 
Then on, to find no shelter and no rest, 
For ever rootless and for ever lone. 



10 IMMUTABLE. 

God, we are but leaves upon Thy stream, 
Clouds on Thy sky. We do but move across 
The stedfast breast of Thine infinitude 
Which bears us all. We pour out day by 

day 
Our long, brief moan of mutability 
To Thine Immutable — and cease. 

Yet still 
Our change yearns after Thine unchangedness : 
Our mortal craves Thine immortality ; 
Our manifold and multiform and weak 
Imperfectness, requires the perfect One. 
For Thou art Oise, and we are all of Thee ; 
Dropped from Thy bosom, as Thy sky drops 

down 
Its morning dews, which glitter for a space, 
Uncertain whence they fell, or whither tend, 
Till the great Sun arising on his fields 
TTpcalls them all, and they rejoicing go. 



IMMUTABLE. 11 

So, with like joy, Light Eterne, we spring 
Thee- ward, and leave the pleasant fields of earth, 
Forgetting equally their blossoni'd green 
And their dry dusty paths which drank us up 
Remorseless — we, poor humble drops of dew 
That only wish'd to freshen a flower's breast 
And be exhaled to heaven. 

Thou supreme 
All- satisfying and immutable One, 
It is enough to be absorb' d in Thee 
And vanish — though 't were only to a voice 
That through all ages with perpetual joy 
Goes evermore loud crying, " God ! God ! God ! " 



POUR YEARS. 



At the midsummer, when the hay was down, 
Said I, mournfully — My year is at its prime, 
Yet bare he my meadows, shorn before their 

time, 
In my scorch' d woodlands the leaves are turning 

brown. 
It is the hot midsummer, and the hay is down. 

At the midsummer, when the hay was down, 
Stood she by the streamlet, young and very fair, 



FOUR YEARS. 13 

With the first white bindweed twisted in her 

hair- 
Hair that drooped like birch-boughs, — all in 

her simple gown. 
For it was midsummer, — and the hay was down. 



At the midsummer, when the hay was down, 
Crept she, a willing bride, close into my breast : 
Low-piled the thunder- clouds had drifted to the 

west — 
Red-eyed out glared the sun, like knight from 

leaguer'd town, 
That eve in high midsummer, when the hay was 

down. 



It is midsummer — all the hay is down : 
Close to her bosom press I dying eyes, 
Praying, " Grod shield thee till we meet in Para- 
dise!" 



14 FOUR YEARS. 

Bless her in Love's name wlio was my brief 

life's crown, — 
And I go at midsummer, when the hay is down. 



THE DEAD CZAR. 

Lay him beneath his snows, 
The great Norse giant who in these last days 
Troubled the nations. Gather decently 
The imperial robes about him. 'T is but man- 
This demi-god. Or rather it was man, 
And is — a little dust, that will corrupt 
As fast as any nameless dust which sleeps 
'Neath Alma's grass or Balaklava's vines. 

No vineyard grave for him. No quiet tomb 
By river margin, where across the seas 



16 THE DEAD CZAR. 

Children's fond thoughts and women's memories 

come 
Like angels, to sit by the sepulchre, 
Saying : " All these were men who knew to 

count, 
Front-faced, the cost of honour, nor did shrink 
From its fall payment : coming here to die, 
They died — like men." 



But this man ? Ah ! for him 
Funereal state, and ceremonial grand, 
The stone-engraved sarcophagus, and then 
Oblivion. 

Nay, oblivion were as bliss 
To that fierce howl which rolls from land to land 
Exulting — " Art thou fallen, Lucifer, 
Son of the morning ?" or condemning — " Thus 
Perish the wicked ! " or blaspheming — " Here 
Lies our Belshazzar, our Sennacherib, 



THE DEAD CZAR. 17 

Our Pharaoh— lie whose heart God hardened, 
So that he would not let the people go/' 



Self-glorifying sinners ! Why, this man 
Was but like other men : — you, Levite small, 
Who shut your saintly ears, and prate of hell 
And heretics, because outside church-doors, 
Your church- doors, congregations poor and 

small 
Praise Heaven in their own way; — you, auto- 
crat 
Of all the hamlets, who add field to field 
And house to house, whose slavish children 

cower 
Before your tyrant footstep ; — you, foul-tongued 
Fanatic or ambitious egotist, 
Who think Grod stoops from His high Majesty 
To lay His finger on your puny head, 
And crown it — that you henceforth may parade 



18 THE DEAD CZAR. 

Your maggotship throughout the wondering 

world — 
" I am the Lord's anointed ! " 

Fools and blind ! 
This Czar, this emperor, this disthroned corpse 
Lying so straightly in an icy calm 
Grander than sovereignty, was but as ye — 
No better and no worse : — Heaven mend us all ! 

Carry him forth and bury him. Death's peace 
Rest on his memory ! Mercy by his bier 
Sits silent, or says only these few words, — 
" Let him who is without sin 'mongst ye all 
Cast the first stone." 



THE WIND AT NIGHT. 



sudden blast, that through this silence black 

Sweeps past my windows, 
Coming and going with invisible track 

As death or sin does — 

Why scare me, lying sick, and, save thine own, 

Hearing no voices ? 

Why mingle with a helpless human moan 

Thy mad rejoices ? 
2 * 



20 THE WIND AT NIGHT. 

Why not come gently, as good angels come 

To souls departing, 
Floating among the shadows of the room 

With eyes light-darting 

Bringing faint airs of balm that seem to rouse 

Thoughts of a Far Land, 
Then binding softly upon weary brows 

Death's poppy-garland ? 

fearful blast, I shudder at thy sound 

Like heathen mortal 
Who saw the Three that mark life's doomed bound 

Sit at his portal. 

Thou might'st be laden with sad, shrieking souls, 

Carried unwilling 
From their known earth to the unknown stream 
that rolls 

All anguish stilling. 



THE WIND AT NIGHT. 21 

Fierce wind, will the Death-angel come like thee, 

Soon, soon to bear me 
— Whither ? What mysteries may unfold to me. 

What terrors scare me ? 

Shall I go wand'ring on through empty space, 

As on earth, lonely ? 
Or seek through myriad spirit-ranks one face, 

And miss that only ? 

Shall I not then drop down from sphere to sphere 

Palsied and aimless ? 
Or will my being change so, that both fear 

And grief die nameless ? 

Rather I pray Him who Himself is Love, 

Out of whose essence 
We all do spring, and towards Him tending, move 

Back to His presence, 



22 THE WIND AT NIGHT. 

That even His brightness may not quite efface 

The soul's earth-features, 
That the dear human likeness each may trace— 

Glorified creatures ; 

That we may not cease loving, only taught 

Holier desiring 
More faith, more patience ; with more wisdom 
fraught, 

Higher aspiring. 

That we may do all work we left undone 

Here — through unmeetness ; 
From height to height celestial passing on 

Towards full completeness. 

Then, strong Azrael, be thy supreme call 

Soft as spring-breezes, 
Or like this blast, whose loud fiend- festival 

My heart's blood freezes, 



THE WIND AT NIGHT. 23 

I will not fear thee. If thou safely keep 

My soul, GocPs giving, 
And my soul's soul, I, wakening from death-sleep, 

Shall first know living. 



A FABLE. 



Silent and sunny was the way 

Where Youth and I danced on together ; 
So winding and embowered o'er 
We could not see one rood before. 
Nevertheless all merrily 
We bounded onward, Youth and I, 

Leashed closely in a silken tether : 
(Well-a-day, a, well-a-day !) 
Ah Youth, ah Youth, but I would fain 
See thy sweet foolish face again ! 

It came to pass, one morn of May, 
All in a swoon of golden weather, 



A FABLE. 25 

That I through green leaves fluttering 
Saw Joy uprise on Psyche wing : 
Eagerly, too eagerly 
We followed after — Youth and I — 

Till suddenly he slipp'd the tether : 
(Well-a-day, a, well-a-day!) 
" Where art thou, Youth ? " I cried. In vain ; 
He never more came back again. 

Yet onward through the devious way 

In rain or shine, I reck'd not whether, 

Like many another maddened boy, 

I track'd my Psyche-winged Joy ; 

Till, curving round the bowery lane, 

Lo — in the pathway stood pale Pain, 
And we met face to face together : 
("Well-a-day, a, well-a-day !) 

" Whence com'st thou ? " — and I writhed in 
vain — 

" Unloose thy cruel grasp, Pain ! " 



26 A FABLE. 

But he would not. Since, day by day 

He lias ta'en up Youth's silken tether 

And changed it into iron bands. 

So through rich vales and barren lands 

Solemnly, all solemnly 

March we united, he and I ; 

And we have grown such friends together, 
(Well-a-day, a, well-a-day !) 

I and this my brother Pain, 

I think we '11 never part again. 



LABOUR IS PRAYER, 



Labora.ee est orare : 

We, black- visaged sons of toil, 
From the coal-mine and the anvil 

And the delving of the soil, — 
From the loom, the wharf, the warehouse, 

And the ever- whirling mill, 
Out of grim and hungry silence 

Lift a weak voice, small and shrill ; — 
Laborare est orare : 

Man, dost hear us ? God, He will. 

We who just can keep from starving 
Sickly wives — not always mild : 



28 LABOUR IS PRAYER. 

Trying not to curse Heaven's bounty 

When it sends another child, — 
We who, worn-out, doze on Sundays 

O'er the Book we strive to read, 
Cannot understand the parson 

Or the catechism and creed, — 
Labor are est or are : — 

Then, good sooth, we pray indeed. 



We, poor women, feeble-natured, 

Large of heart, in wisdom small, 
Who the world's incessant battle 

Cannot understand at all, 
All the mysteries of the churches, 

All the troubles of the state, — 
Whom child-smiles teach " God is loving," 

And child-coffins, " God is great : " 
Labor are est or are : — 

We too at His footstool wait. 



LABOUR IS PRAYER. 29 

Laborare est orare ; 

Hear it, ye of spirit poor, 
Who sit crouching at the threshold 

While your brethren force the door ; 
Ye whose ignorance stands wringing 

Rough hands, seam'd with toil, nor dares 
Lift so much as eyes to heaven — 

Lo ! all life this truth declares, 
Laborare est orare y 

And the whole earth rings with prayers. 



A SILLY SONG. 



" heart, my heart ! " slie said, and heard 
His mate the blackbird calling, 

While through the sheen of the garden green 
May rain was softly falling — 
Aye softly, softly falling. 

The butter-cups across the field 

Made sunshine rifts of splendour : 

The round snow-bud of the thorn in the wood 
Peep'd through its leafage tender, 
As the rain came softly falling. 



A SILLY SONG. 31 

" heart, my heart ! " she said and smiled, 
" There 's not a tree of the valley, 

Or a leaf, I wis, which the rain's soft kiss 
Freshens in yonder alley, 
Where the drops keep ever falling, — 

" There 's not a foolish flower i' the grass, 
Or bird through the woodland calling, 

So glad again of the coming of rain 
As I of these tears now falling — 
These happy tears down falling." 



IN MEMORIAM. 

Obiit 1854. 

Heaven rest thee ! 
We shall go about to-day 
In our festal garlands gay ; 
Whatsoever robes we wear, 
Not a trace of black be there. 
Well, what matters ? none is seen 
On thy daisy- covering green, 
Or thy pure white pillow, hid 
Underneath a coffin lid. 
Heaven rest thee ! 



IN MEMORIAM. 33 

Heaven take thee ! — 
Ay, Heaven only. Sleeps beneath 
One who died a virgin death : 
Died so slowly, day by day, 
That it scarcely seem'd decay, 
Till this lonely churchyard kind 
Opened — and we left behind 
Nothing but a little dust ; — 
Heaven is pitiful and just : 
Heaven take thee ! 



Heaven keep thee : 

Nevermore above the ground 

Be one relic of thee found : 

Lay the turf so smooth, we crave, 

Xone would guess it was a grave, 

Save for grass that greener grows, 

And for wind that gentlier blows 
3 



34 IN MEMORIAM. 

All the earth o'er, from this spot 
Where thou wert — and thou art not. 
Heaven keep thee ! 



AN HONEST VALENTINE. 

Returned from the Dead-letter Office. 

Thank ye for your kindness, 

Lady fair and wise, 
Though. Love 's famed for blindness, 

Lovers — hern ! for lies. 
Courtship 's mighty pretty, 

Wedlock a sweet sight ; — 
Should I (from the city, 

A plain man, Miss — ) write, 
Ere we spouse-and-wive it, 

Just one honest line, 
Could you e'er forgive it, 

Pretty Valentine ? 

3 * 



36 AN HONEST VALENTINE. 

Honey-moon quite oyer, 

If I less should scan 
You with, eye of lover 

Than of mortal man ? 
Seeing my fair charmer 

Curl hair spire on spire, 
All in paper armour, 

By the parlour fire ; 
Gown that wants a stitch in 

Hid by apron fine, 
Scolding in her kitchen, — 

fie, Valentine ! 



Should I come home surly, 
Vex'd with fortune's frown, 

Find a hurly-burly, 

House turned upside down, 

Servants all a- snarl, or 
Cleaning steps or stair : 



AN HONEST VALENTINE. -37 

Breakfast still in parlour, 

Dinner — anywhere : 
Shall I to cold bacon 

Meekly fall and dine ? 
No — or I 'm mistaken 

Much, mv Yalentine. 



What if we should quarrel ? 

— Bless you, all folks do : — 
"Will you take the war ill, 

Yet half like it too ? 
When I storm and jangle, 

Obstinate, absurd, 
Will you sit and wrangle 

Just for the last word ? — 
Or, while poor Love, crying, 

Upon tip-toe stands, 
Ready plumed for flying — 

Will you smile, shake hands, 



38 AX HONEST VALENTINE. 

And the truth, beholding, 

With a kiss divine 
Stop my rough mouth's scolding ?- 

Bless you, Valentine ! 



If, should times grow harder. 

We have lack of pelf, 
Little in the larder, 

Less upon the shelf ; 
Will you, never tearful, 

Make your old gowns do, 
Mend my stockings, cheerful, 

And pay visits few ? 
Crave nor gift nor donor, 

Old days ne'er regret, 
Ask no friend save Honour, 

Dread no foe but Debt ; 
Meet ill-fortune steady, 

Hand to hand with mine, 



AN HONEST VALENTINE. 39 

Like a gallant lady — 
Will you, Valentine ? 



Then, whatever weather 

Come — or shine, or shade, 
We '11 set out together, 

Xe'er a whit afraid. 
Age is not alarming— 

I shall find, I ween, 
You at sixty charming 

As at sweet sixteen : 
Let 's pray, nothing loath, dear, 

That our funeral may 
Make one date serve both, dear, 

Like our marriage day. 
Then, come joy or sorrow, 

Thou art mine — I thine. 
And we '11 wed to-morrow, 

Dearest Valentine. 



LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 



Ay, in thy face, old fellow ! Now 's tlie time. 
The Black Sea wind flaps my tent-roof, nor 

wakes 
These lads of mine, who take of sleep their fill, 
As if they thought they 'd never sleep again, 
Instead of — 

Pitiless Crimean blast, 
How many a howling lullaby thou Tt raise 
To-morrow^ night, all nights till the world's 

end, 
Over some sleepers here ! 



LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 41 

Some ? — who ? Dumb Fate 
Whispers in no man's ear his coming doom. 
Each thinks— " not I— not L" 

Yet, solemn Death, 
I hear thee on the night-wind flying abroad, 
I feel thee here, squatted at our tent-door, 
Invisible and incommunicable, 
Pointing — 

"Hurrah!" 

Why yell so in your sleep, 
Comrade ? Did you see aught ? 

Well — let him dream : 
Who knows, to-morrow such a shout as this 
He '11 die with. A brave lad, and very like 
His sister. * # # 

So ! just two hours have I lain 
Freezing. That pale white star, which came 

and peer'd 
Through the tent-opening, has pass'd on, to 
smile 



42 LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 

Elsewhere, or lost herself i/ the dark — God 

knows. 
Two hours nearer to dawn. The very hour — 
The yery hour and day, a year ago, 
When we light-hearted and light-footed fools 
Went jingling idle swords in waltz and reel, 
And smiling in fair faces. How they ? d start, 
Those dainty red and white soft faces kind, 
If only they could see my visage now, 
Or his — or his — or some poor faces cold 
We cover'd up with earth last noon. 

— There sits 
The laidly Thing I felt at our tent-door 
Two hours back. It has sat and never stirr'd. 
I cannot challenge it — nor shoot it down, 
JSTor grapple with it, as with that young Euss 
Whom I kilTd yesterday. (What eyes he had ! — 
Great limpid eyes, and curling dark-red hair — 
A woman's picture hidden in his breast — 
I never liked this fighting hand to hand.) 



LOOKING DEATH IN THE EACE. 43 

No — it will not be met like flesh and blood, 
This shapeless, voiceless, immaterial Thing, 
Yet I will meet it. Here I sit alone — 
Show me thy face, Death ! 

There, there. I think 
I did not tremble. 

I am a young man ; 
Have done full many an ill deed, left undone 
Many a good one : lived unto the flesh, 
Not to the spirit : I would rather live 
A few years more, and try if things might 

change. 
Yet, yet I hope I do not tremble, Death ; 
That thy cold ringer pointed at my heart 
But calms the tumult there. 

What small account 
The All-living seems to take of this thin flame 
Which we call life. He sends a moment's blast 
Out of war's nostrils, and a myriad 



44 LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 

Of these our puny tapers are biown out 

For ever. Yet we shrink not — we, such frail 

Poor knaves, whom a spent ball can instant 

strike 
Into eternity — we helpless fools, 
Whom a serf's clumsy hand and clumsier 

sword 
Smiting — shall sudden into nothingness 
Let out that something rare which could con- 
ceive 
A universe and its God. 

Free, open-eyed, 
We rush like bridegrooms to Death's grisly arms : 
Surely the very longing for that clasp 
Proves us immortal. Immortality 
Alone coidd teach this mortal how to die. 
Perhaps, war is but Heaven's great ploughshare, 

driven 
Over the barren, fallow earthlv fields, 



LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 45 

Preparing them for harvest ; rooting up 
Grass, weeds, and flowers, which necessary fall, 
That in these furrows the vase Husbandman 
May drop celestial seed. 

So, let us die : 
Yield up our lives, content, as the flowers do ; 
Believing He '11 not lose one single soul — 
One germ of His immortal. Nought of His 
Or Him can perish ; therefore let us die. 

I half remember something like to this 
She says in her dear letters. So — let 's die. 
What, dawn ? The faint hum in the trenches 

fails — 
Is that a bell i ? the mist ? My faith ! they go 
Early to matins in Sebastopol — 
A gun ! — Lads — stand to your arms ; the Russ 

is here. 
Agnes. 



46 LOOKING DEATH IN THE FACE. 

Kind Heaven, I have look'd death in the 
face, 
Help me to die. 



BY THE ALMA RIVER. 



Willie, fold your little hands ; 

Let it drop — that u soldier " toy : 
Look where father's picture stands — 

Father, who here kiss'd his boy 
Not three months since — father kind, 
Who this night may — Never mind 
Mother's sob, my Willie dear, 
Call aloud that He may hear 
TVho is God of battles, say, 
" Oh, keep father safe this day 

By the Alma river." 



48 BY THE ALMA RIVER. 

Ask no more, child. Never heed 
Either Russ, or Frank, or Turk, 

Right of nations or of creed, 

Chance-poised victory's bloody work : 

Any flag i' the wind may roll 

On thy heights, Sebastopol ; 

Willie, all to yon and me 

Is that spot, where'er it be, 

Where he stands — no other word ! 

Stands — Sure, the child's prayer was heard- 
By the Alma river. 

Willie, listen to the bells 

Ringing through the town to-day. 
That 's for victory. Ah, no knells 

For the many swept away — 
Hundreds — thousands ! Let us weep, 
We, who need not — just to keep 
Reason steady in my brain 
Till the morning comes again, 



BY THE RTVEK ALMA. 49 

Till the third dread morning tell 
Who they were that fought and fell 

By the Alma river. 

Come, we '11 lay us down, my child, 
Poor the bed is, poor and hard ; 

Yet thy father, far exiled, 

Sleeps upon the open sward, 

Dreaming of us two at home : 

Or beneath the starry dome 

Digs out trenches in the dark, 

Where he buries — Willie, mark — 

Where lie buries those who died 

Fighting bravely at his side 
By the Alma river. 

Willie, Willie, go to sleep, 

God will keep us, my boy , 

He will make the dull hours creep 
Faster, and send news of joy, 



50 BY THE ALMA RIVER. 

When I need not shrink to meet 
Those dread placards in the street, 
Which for weeks will ghastly stare 
In some eyes — Child, say thy prayei 
Once again ; a different one : 
Say, " God, Thy will be done 
By the Alma river." 



EOTHESAY BAY. 



Fu' yellow lie the corn-rigs 

Far doun the braid hill-side ; 
It is the brawest harst field 

Alang the shores o' Clyde, — 
And I 'm a puir harst-lassie, 

That stan's the lee-lang day 
Shearing the corn-rigs of Ardbeg 

Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. 

O I had ance a true-love — 
Now, I hae nane ava ; 

4 * 



52 ROTHESAY BAY. 

And I had ance three brithers, 

But I hae tint them a' : 
My father and my mithei 

Sleep i' the mools this day. 
I sit my lane amang the rigs 

Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. 

It *s a bonnie bay at morning, 

And bonnier at the noon, 
But it 's bonniest when the sun draps 

And red comes up the moon : 
TThen the mist creeps o'er the Cumbrays, 

And Arran peaks are grey, 
And the great black hills, like sleepin' kings, 

Sit grand roun' Rothesay Bay, 

Then a bit sigh stirs my bosom, 

And a wee tear blinds my e'e — 

And I think o' that far Countrie 
Whar I wad like to be ! 



ROTHESAY BAY. 53 

But I rise content i ? the morning 

To wark while wark I may 
I 5 the yellow harst field of Ardbeg, 

Aboon sweet Rothesay Bay. 



LIVING : 

AFTER A DEATH. 

" That friend of mine who lives in God." 
LIVE ! 

(Thus seems it we should say to our beloved — 
Each held by such slight links, so oft removed ;) 
And I can let thee go to the world's end ; 
AH precious names, companion, love, spouse, 

friend, 
Seal up in an eternal silence grey, 
Like a closed grave till resurrection- day : 
All sweet remembrances, hopes, dreams, desires, 



LIVING. 55 

Heap, as one heaps up sacrificial fires : 
Then, turning, consecrate by loss, and proud 
Of penury — go back into the loud 
Tumultuous world again with never a moan — 
Save that which whispers still, " My own, my 

own," 
Unto the same broad sky whose arch immense 
Enfolds us both like the arm of Providence : 
And thus, contented, I could live or die, 
With never clasp of hand or meeting eye 
On this side paradise. — While thee I see 
Xiving to God, thou art alive to me. 

live ! 

And I, methinks, can let all dear rights go, 

Fond duties melt away like April snow, 

And sweet, sweet hopes, that took a life to weave. 

Vanish like gossamers of autumn eve. 

Nay, sometimes seems it I could even bear 

To lay down humbly this love-crown I wear 



56 LIVING. 

Steal from my palace, helpless, hopeless, poor, 
And see another queen it at the door — 
If only that the king had done no wrong, 
If this my palace, where I dwelt so long, 
Were not defiled by falsehood entering in : — 
There is no loss but change, no death but sin, 
N o parting, save the slow corrupting pain 
Of murder* d faith that never lives again. 

live ! 

(So endeth faint the low pathetic cry 
Of love, whom death has taught, love cannot die), 
And I can stand above the daisy bed, 
The only pillow for thy dearest head, 
There cover up for ever from my sight 
My own, my own, my all of earth-delight ; 
And enter the sea-cave of widow' d years, 
Where far, far off the trembling gleam appears 
Through which thy heavenly image slipped 
away, 



LIVING. 



And waits to meet me at the open day. 
Only to me, my love, only to me. 
This cavern underneath the moaning sea ; 
This long, long life that I alone must tread, 
To whom the living seem most like the dead,- 
Thou wilt he safe out on the happy shore : 
He who in God lives, liveth evermore. 



IN OUR BOAT. 



Stars trembling o'er us and sunset before us, 

Mountains in shadow and forests asleep ; 
Down the dim river we float on for ever, 

Speak not, ah breathe not — there *s peace on 
the deep. 
Come not, pale Sorrow, flee till to-morrow, 

Rest softly falling o'er eyelids that weep ; 
While down the river we float on for ever, 

Speak not, ah breathe not, there *s peace on 
the deep. 



IN OUR BOAT. 59 

As the waves cover the depths we glide over, 

So let the past in forgetfulness sleep, 
While down the river we float on for ever, 

Speak not, ah breathe not, there 's peace on 
the deep. 
Heaven, shine above us, bless all that love us, 

All whom we love in thy tenderness keep ! 
While down the river we float on for ever, 

Speak not, ah breathe not, there *s peace on 
the deep. 



THE RIVER, SHORE. 

For an old tune of Dowland's. 

Walking by the quiet river 

Where the slow tide seaward goes, 
All the cares of life fall from us, 

All our troubles find repose : 
Nought forgetting, nought regretting, 

Lovely ghosts, from days no more, 
Glide with white feet o'er, the river, 

Smiling towards the silent shore. 



THE RIVER SHORE. 61 

Sc we pray, in His good pleasure, 

When this world we Ve safely trod, 
We may walk beside the river 

Flowing from the throne of God : 
All forgiving, all believing, 

Not one lost we loved before, 
Looking towards the hills of heaven 

Calmlv from the eternal shore. 



A FLOWER OF A DAY 



Old friend, that with a pale and pensile grace 
Climb' st the lush hedgerows, art thou back again, 
Marking the slow round of the wondrous years ? 
Didst beckon me a moment, silent flower ? 

Silent ? As silent is the archangel's pen 
That day by day writes our life chronicle, 
And turns the page ; the half- forgotten page, 
Which all eternity will never blot. 

Forgotten ? No, we never do forget : 

We let the years go : wash them clean with tears, 

Leave them to bleach, out in the open day, 



A FLOWER OF A DAY. 63 

Or lock them careful by, like dead friends' clothes, 
Till we shall dare unfold them without pain — 
But we forget not, never can forget. 

Flower, thou and I a moment face to face — 
My face as clear as thine, this July noon 
Shining on both, on bee and butterfly 
And golden beetle creeping in the sun — 
Will pause, and lifting up, page after page, 
The many-colour'd history of life, 
Look backwards, backwards. 

So, the volume close ! 
This July day, with the sun high in heaven, 
And the whole earth rejoicing — let it close. 

I think we need not sigh, complain, nor rave : 
Nor blush — our doings and misdoings all 
Being more 'gainst heaven than man, heaven 
them does keep 



64 A FLOWER OF A DAY. 

With all its doings and undoings strange 
Concerning us. — Ah, let the volume close : 
I would not alter in it one poor line. 

My dainty flower, my innocent white flower, 
With such a pure smile looking up to heaven, 
With such a bright smile looking down on me — 
(Nothing but smiles — as if in all the world 
Were no such things as thunder-storms or frosts, 
Or broken petals trampled on the ground, 
Or shivering leaves whirl'd in the wintry air 
Like ghosts of last year's joys :) — my pretty 

flower, 
I'll pluck thee — smiling too. Not one salt drop 
Shall stain thee : — if these foolish eyes are dim, 
'T is only with a wondering thankfulness 
That they behold such beauty and such peace, 
Such wisdom and such sweetness, in God's world. 



THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING. 



All shimmering in the morning shine 

And diamonded with dew, 
And quivering in the scented wind 

That thrills its green heart through, — 
The little field, the smiling field, 

With all its flowers a-blowing, 
How happy looks the golden field 

The day before the mowing ! 

All still ? neath the departing light, 

Twilight, though void of stars, 

Save where, low westering, Yenus hides 

From the red eye of Mars ; 
5 



66 THE NIGHT BEFORE THE MOWING. 

How quiet lies the silent field 
With all its beauties glowing ; 

Just stirring — like a child asleep, — 
The night before the mowing. 

Sharp steel, inevitable hand, 

Cut keen, cut kind ! Our field 
We know full well must be laid low 

Before its wealth it yield : 
Labour and mirth and plenty blest 

Its blameless death bestowing : 
And yet we weep, and yet we weep, 

The night before the mowing. 



PASSION PAST. 



Were I a boy, with, a boy's heart-beat 
At glimpse of her passing adown the street, 
Of a room where she had enter'd and gone, 
Or a page her hand had written on — 
Would all be with me as it was before ? 
Oh no, never ! no, no, never ! 
Never any more. 

Were I a man, with a man's pulse- throb, 
Breath hard and fierce, held down like a sob, 



68 PASSION PAST. 

Dumb, yet hearing her lightest word, 
Blind, until only her garment stirr'd : 
Would I pour my life like wine on her floor ? 
No, no, never : never, never ! 
Never any more. 

Grey and withered, wrinkled and marred, 

I have past through the fire and come out un- 

scarr'd, 
"With the image of manhood upon me yet, 
No shame to remember, no wish to forget : 
But could she rekindle the pangs I bore ? — 
Oh no, never : thank Grod, never ! 
Never any more. 

Old and wrinkled, withered and grey — 
And yet if her light step pass'd to-day, 
I should see her face all faces among, 
And say — " Heaven love thee, whom I loved 
long! 



PASSION PAST. 69 

Thou hast lost the key of my heart's door, 
Lost it ever and for ever, 
Ay, for evermore." 



OCTOBER. 



It is no joy to me to sit 

On dreamy summer eves, 
When silently tlie timid moon 

Kisses the sleeping leaves, 
And all things through the fair hush'd earth 

Love, rest — but nothing grieves. 
Better I like old autumn, 

His hair tossed to and fro, 
Firm striding o'er the stubble fields 

When the equinoctials blow. 

When shrinkingly the sun creeps up 
Through misty mornings cold, 



OCTOBER. 71 

And Robin on the orchard hedge 

Sings cheerily and bold, 
While heavily the frosted plum 

Drops downwards on the mould ; — 
And as he passes, autumn 

Into earth's lap does throw 
Brown apples gay in a game of play, 

As the equinoctials blow. 

When the spent year its carol sinks 

Into a humble psalm, 
Asks no more for the pleasure draught, 

But for the cup of balm, 
And all its storms and sunshine bursts 

Controls to one brave calm, — 
Then step by step walks autumn, 

With steady eyes that show 
Nor grief nor fear, to the death of the year, 

While the equinoctials blow. 



MOON-STBUCK. 



A FANTASY. 



It is a moor 
Barren and treeless ; lying high, and bare 
Beneath the arched sky. The rushing winds 
Fly oyer it, each with his strong bow bent 
And quiver full of whistling arrows keen. 

I am a woman, lonely, old, and poor. 

If there be any one who watches me 

(But there is none) adown the long blank wold, 

My figure painted on the level sky 



MOOX-STRUCK. / O 

Would startle hirri as if it were a ghost, — 
And like a ghost, a weary wandering ghost, 
I roam and roam, and shiver through the dark 
That will not hide me. Oh for one still hour, 
One blessed hour of warm and dewy night, 
To wrap me like a pall — with not an eye 
In earth or heaven to pierce the black serene. 

Night, call ye this ? No night ; no dark — no 

rest — 
A moon-ray sweeps down sudden from the sky, 
And smites the moor — 

Is 't thou, accursed Thing, 
Broad, pallid, like a great woe looming out — 
Out of its long- seaF d grave, to fill all earth 
With a dead ghastly smile ? Art there again, 
Round, perfect, large, as when we buried thee, 
I and the kindly clouds that heard my prayers ? 
I '11 sit me down and meet thee face to face, 
Mine enemy ! — Why didst thou rise upon 



74 MOON-STRUCK. 

My world — my innocent world, to make me mad ? 
Wherefore shine forth, a tiny tremulous curve 
Hung out in the grey sunset beauteously, 
To tempt mine eyes — then nightly to increase 
Slow orbing, till thy full, blank, pitiless stare 
Hunts me across the world ? 

No rest — no dark. 
Hour after hour that passionless bright face 
Climbs up the desolate blue. I will press down 
The lids on my tired eye-balls — crouch in dust, 
And pray. 

— Thank God, thank God ! — a cloud has hid 
My torturer. The night at last is free : 
Forth peep in crowds the merry twinkling stars. 
Ah, we '11 shine out, the little silly stars 
And I ; we Tl dance together across the moor, 
They up aloft — I here. At last, at last, 
We are avenged of our adversary ! 

The freshening of the night air feels like dawn. 



MOON-STKUCK 75 

Who said that I was mad ? I will arise, 
Throw off my burthen, march across the wold 
Airily — Ha, what, stumbling ? Nay, no fear — 
I am used unto the dark ; for many a year 
Steering companionless athwart this waste 
To where, deep hid in valleys of white mist, 
The pleasant home-lights shine. I will but 

pause, 
Turn round and gaze — 

miserable me ! 
The cloud-bank overflows : sudden out-pour 
The bright white rnoon-rays — ah, I drown, I 

drown, 
And o'er the flood, with steady motion, slow 
It walketh — my inexorable Doom. 

No more : I shall not struggle any more : 
I will lie down as quiet as a child, — 
I can but die. 

There, I have hid my face : 



76 MOON -STRUCK. 

Stray travellers passing o'er the silent wold 
Would only say " She sleeps/' 

Glare on, my Doom ; 
I will not look at thee : and if at times 
I shiver, still I neither weep nor moan : 
Angels may see, I neither weep nor moan. 

Was that sharp whistling wind the morning 

breeze 
That calls the stars back to the obscure of 

heaven ? 
I am very cold. — And yet there is a change. 
Less fiercely the sharp moonbeams smite my 

brain ; 
My heart beats slower, duller : soothing rest 
Like a soft garment binds my shuddering 

limbs, — 
If I look'd up now, should I see it still 
Gibbeted ghastly in the hopeless sky ? — 
No! 



MOON-STRUCK. 77 

It is very strange : all things seem strange : 
Pale spectral face, I do not fear thee now : 
AVas 't this mere shadow which did haunt me 

once 
Like an avenging fiend ?— "Well, we fade out 
Together : I '11 nor dread nor curse thee more. 

How calm the earth seems ! and I know the 

moor 
Glistens with dew- stars. I will try and turn 
My poor face eastward. Close not, eyes ! That 

light 
Fringing the far hills, all so fair — so fair, 
Is it not dawn ? I am dying, but 't is dawn. 
" Upon the mountains I behold the feet 
Of my Beloved : let us forth to meet " — 
Death. 

This is death. I see the light no more ; 
I sleep. 

But like a morning bird my soul 



78 MOON-STRUCK. 

Springs singing upward, into the deeps of 

heaven, 
Through world on world to follow Infinite Day. 



A STREAM'S SINGING. 



how beautiful is Morning ! 

How the sunbeams strike the daisies, 
And the king- cups fill the meadow, 
Like a golden-shielded armv 

Marching to the uplands fair ! — 

1 am going forth to battle, 

And life's uplands rise before me, 
And my golden shield is ready, 
And I pause a moment, timing 
My heart's paean to the waters, 
As with cheerful song incessant 
♦ Onwards runs the little stream ; 



80 a stream's singing. 

Singing ever, onward ever, 

Boldly runs the merry stream. 

how glorious is Noon-day ! 
With the cool large shadows lying 
Underneath the giant forest, 

The far hill-tops towering dimly 

O'er the conquer'd plains below ; — 

1 am conquering — I shall conquer 
In life's battle-field impetuous : 
And I lie and listen dreamy 

To a double-yoiced, low music,— 
Tender beech-trees' sheeny shiver 
Mingled with the diapason 

Of the strong, deep, joyful stream, 
Like a man's love and a woman's ; 

So it runs — the happy stream ! 

how grandly cometh Even, 
Sitting on the mountain summit, 



a stream's singing. 81 

Purple-vestured, grave, and silent, 
Watching o'er the dewy valleys, 

Like a good king near his end : — 
I have labour' d, I have governed ; 
Now I feel the gathering shadow 
Of the night that closes all things : 
And the fair earth fades before me, 
And the stars leap out in heaven, 
AYhile into the infinite darkness 

Solemn runs the stedfast stream — 
Onward, onward, ceaseless, fearless, 

Singing runs the eternal stream. 



A REJECTED LOVER. 



You " never loved me/' Ada. These slow words, 
Dropp'd softly from your gentle woman-tongue 
Out of your true and kindly woman-heart, 
Fell, piercing into mine like very swords, 
The sharper for their kindness. Yet no wrong 
Lies to your charge, nor cruelty, nor art ; 
Ev'n while you spoke, I saw the tender tear-drop 
start. 

You " never loved me." No, you never knew, 
You, with youth's morning fresh upon your 
soul, 



A REJECTED LOVER. 83 

What 't is to lore : slow, drop by drop, to pour 
Our life's whole essence, perfumed through and 

through 
With all the best we have or can control 
For the libation — cast it down before 
Your feet — then lift the goblet, dry for evermore. 

I shall not die as foolish lovers do : 
A man's heart beats beneath- this breast of mine, 
The breast where — Curse on that fiend- whisper- 
ing 
" It might hare been ! " — Ada, I will be true 
Unto myself — the self that so loved thine : 
ilay all life's pain, like these few tears that 

spring 
For me, glance off as rain-drops from my white 
dove's wing ! 

May you live long, some good man's bosom- 
flower, 



81 A REJECTED LOVER. 

And gather children round your matron knees : 
So, when all this is past, and you and I 
Remember each our youth-days as an hour 
Of joy — or anguish, — one, serene, at ease, 
May come to meet the other's stedfast eye, 
Thinking, " He loved me well ! " clasp hands, 
and so pass by. 



A LIVING PICTURE. 



Xo, I ''11 not say your name. I have said it now, 
As you mine, first in childish treble, then 
Up through a score and more familiar years 
Till baby- voices mock us. Time may come 
When your tall sons look down on our white 

hair, 
Amused to hear us call each other thus, 
And question us about the old, old days, 
The far-off days, the days when we were young. 

How distant do they seem, and vet how near ! 



86 A LIVING PICTURE 

Now, as I lie and watch you come and go, 
With garden basket in your hand ; in gown 
Just girdled, and brown curls that girl-like fall, 
And straw hat flapping in the April breeze, 
I could forget this lapse of years — start up 
Laughing — " Come, let 's go play ! " 

Well-a-day, friend, 
Our play-days are all done. 

Still, let us smile : 
For as you flit about your garden here 
You look like this spring morning : on your 

lips 
An unseen bird sings snatches of gay tunes, 
While, an embodied music, moves your step, 
Your free, wild, springy step, like Atala's, 
Or Pocahontas, careless child o' the sun — 
Those Indian beauties I compare you to — 
I, still your praiser. — 

Nay, nay, I '11 not praise, 
Fair seemeth fairest, ignorant 'tis fair : 



A. LIVING PICTURE. 87 

That light incredulous laugh is worth a world ! 
That laugh, with childish echoes. 

So then, fade, 
Mere dream. Come, true and sweet reality : 
Come, dawn of happy wifehood, motherhood, 
Brighten to perfect noon ! Come, peaceful round 
Of simple joys, fond duties, gladsome cares, 
When each full hour drops bliss with liberal 

hand 
Yet leaves to-morrow richer than to-day. 

Will you sit here ? the grass is summer- warm. 
Look at those children making daisy-chains ; 
So did we too, do you mind ? That eldest lad 
He has your very mouth. Yet, you will have 't 
His eyes are like his father's ? Perhaps so : 
They could not be more dark and deep and 

kind. 
Do you know, this hour I have been fancying 

you 



88 A LIVING PICTURE. 

A poet's dream, and almost sigh'd to think 
There was no poet to praise you — 

Why, you 're flown 
After those mad elves in the flower-beds there, 
Ha — ha — you're no dream now. 

Well, well — so best ! 
My eyelids droop content o'er moisten'd eyes : 
I would not have you other than you are. 



LEONORA. 



Leonora, Leonora, 
How the word rolls — Leonora — 
Lion-like, in full- month' d sound, 
Marching o'er the metric ground 
With a tawny tread sublime — 
So your name moves, Leonora, 
Down my desert rhyme. 

See you pace, young Leonora, 
Through the alleys of the wood, 
Head erect, majestic, tall, 
The fit daughter of the Hall : 



90 LEONORA. 

Yet with, hazel eyes declined, 
And a voice like summer wind, 
And a meek mouth, sweet and good, 
Dimpling ever, Leonora, 
In fair womanhood. 

How those smiles dance, Leonora, 
As you meet the pleasant breeze 
Under your ancestral trees : 
For your heart is free and pure 
As this blue March sky overhead, 
And in the life-path you tread, 
All the leaves are budding, sure, 
All the primroses are springing, 
All the birds begin their singing — 
'Tis your spring-time, Leonora, 
May it long endure. 

But it will pass, Leonora : 
And the silent days must fall 



LEONORA. 91 

When a change comes over all : 
When the last leaf downward flitters, 
And the last, last sunbeam glitters 
On the terraced hill-side cool, 
On the peacocks by the pool : 
When you '11 walk along these alleys 
With no lightsome foot that dallies 
With the violets and the moss, — 
But with quiet steps and slow, 
And grave eyes that earthward grow, 
And a matron-heart, inured 
To all women have endured, — 
Must endure and ever will, 
All the joy and all the ill, 
All the gain and all the loss — 
Can you cheerfully lay down 
Careless girlhood's flowery crown, 
And thus take up, Leonora, 
Womanhood's meek cross ? 



92 LEONORA. 

Ay ! those eyes shine, Leonora, 

Warm, and true, and brave, and kind 

And although I nothing know 

Of the maiden heart below, 

I in them good omens find. 

Go, enjoy your present hours 

Like the birds and bees and flowers : 

And may summer days bestow 

On you just so much of rain, 

Blessed baptism of pain ! 

As will make your blossoms grow. 

May you walk, as through life's road 

Every noble woman can, — 

With a pure heart before God, 

And a true heart unto man : 

Till with this same smile you wait 

For the opening of the Gate 

That shuts earth from mortal eyes ; 

Thus, at last, with peaceful heart, 

All contented to depart, 



LEONORA 



93 



Leaving children's children pla}dng 
In these woods you used to stray in, 
You niay enter, Leonora, 
Into paradise. 



PLIGHTED. 



Mine to the core of the heart, my beauty ! 
Mine, all mine, and for love, not duty : 
Love given willingly, full and free, 
Love for love's sake — as mine to thee. 

Duty ? s a slave that keeps the keys, 
But Love, the master, goes in and out 
Of his goodly chambers with song and shout, 

Just as he please — just as he please. 

Mine, from the dear head's crown, brown-golden, 
To the silken foot that 's scarce beholden : 



PLIGHTED. 95 

Give to a few friends hand or smile, 
Like a generous lady, now and awhile, 

But the sanctuary heart, that none dare 
win, 
Keep holiest of holiest evermore : 
The crowd in the aisles may watch the door, 

The high-priest only enters in. 

Mine, my own, without doubts or terrors, 
With all thy goodnesses, all thy errors, 
Unto me and to me alone reveal' d, 
a A spring shut up, a fountain seal'd." 

Many may praise thee — praise mine as 
thine, 
Many may love tnee — I '11 love them too ; 
But thy heart of hearts, pure, faithful, and true, 

Must be mine, mine wholly, and only mine. 

Mine ! — God, I thank Thee that Thou hast given 
Something all mine on this side heaven : 



96 PLIGHTED. 

Something as much myself to be 
As this my soul which I lift to thee : 

Flesh of my flesh, bone of my bone, 
Life of my life, whom Thou clost make 
Two to the world for the world's work's sake — 

But each unto each, as in Thy sight, one. 



MORTALITY. 



"And we shall be changed." 



Ye dainty mosses, lichens grey, 

Press'd each to each in tender fold, 

And peacefully thus, day by day, 
Returning to their mould ; — 

Brown leaves, that with aerial grace 

Slip from your branch like birds a -wing, 

Each leaving in the appointed place 
Its bud of future spring ; — 



98 MORTALITY. 

If we, God's conscious creatures, knew 
But half your faith in our decay, 

We should not tremble as we do 
When summoned clay to clay. 

But with an equal patience sweet 
We should put off this mortal gear, 

In whatsoe'er new form is meet 
Content to re-appear. 

Knowing each germ of life He gives 
Must have in Him its source and rise, 

Being that of His being lives 
May change, but never dies. 

Ye dead leaves, dropping soft and slow, 
Ye mosses green and lichens fair, 

Go to your graves, as I will go, 
For God is also there. 



LIFE RETURNING. 

After War-time. 

life, dear life, with, sunbeam finger touching 
This poor damp brow, or flying freshly by 
On wings of mountain wind, or tenderly 

In links of visionary embraces clutching 

Me from the yawning grave — 
Can I believe thou yet hast power to save ? 

1 see thee, my life, like phantom gian 

Stand on the hill-top, large against the dawn, 
Upon the night-black clouds a picture drawn 



100 LIFE RETURNING. 

Of aspect wonderful, with hope defiant, 

And so majestic grown 
I scarce discern the image as my own. 

Those mists furl off, and through the vale re- 
splendent 
I see the pathway of my years prolong ; 
Not without labour, yet for labour strong : 
Not without pain, but pain whose touch trans- 
cendent 
By love's divinest laws 
Heart unto heart, and ail hearts upwards,, 
draws. 



life, love, your diverse tones bewildering 
Make silence, like two meeting waves of 

sound ; 

1 dream of wifely white arms, lisp of children — 



LIFE RETURNING. 101 

Never of ended wars, 
But kisses sealing honourable scars. 

JSTo more of battles ! save the combat glorious 
To which all earth and heaven may witness 

stand ; 
The sword of the Spirit taking in my hand 

I shall go forth, since in new fields victorious 
The King yet grants that I 

His servant live, or His good soldier die. 



MY FRIEND. 



My Friend wears a cheerful smile of his own, 

And a musical tongue has he ; 
We sit and look in each other's face, 

And are very good company. 
A heart he has, full warm and red 

As ever a heart I see ; 
And as long as I keep true to him, 

Why, he '11 keep true to me. 



MY FRIEND. 103 

When the wind blows high and the snow falls 
fast, 

And we hear the wassailers' roar — 
My Friend and I, with a right goodwill 

We bolt the chamber door : 
I smile at him and he smiles at me 

In a dreamy calm profound, 
Till his heart leaps up in the midst of him 

With a comfortable sound. 



His warm breath kisses my thin grey hair 

And reddens my ashen cheeks ; 
He knows me better than you all know, 

Though never a word he speaks : — 
Knows me as well as some had known 

Were things — not as things be. 
But hey, what matters ? my Friend and I 

Are capital company. 



104 MY FRIEXD. 

At dead of night, when the house is still, 

He opens his pictures fair : 
Faces that are, that used to be, 

And faces that never were : 
My wife sits sewing beside my hearth, 

My little ones frolic wild, 
Though — Lillian *s married these twenty 
years, 

And I never had a child. 



But hey, what matters ? when those who laugh 

May weep to-morrow, and they 
Who weep be as those that wept not — all 

Their tears long wiped away. 
I shall burn out, like you, my Friend, 

With a bright warm heart and bold, 
That flickers up to the last — then drops 

Into quiet ashes cold. 



MY FRIEND. 105 

And when you flicker on me, my Friend, 

In the old man's elbow- chair, 
Or — something easier still, where we 

Lie down, to arise up fair, 
And young, and happy — why then, my Friend, 

Should other friends ask of me, 
Tell them I lived and loved and died 

In the best of all company. 



A VALENTINE, 



Ye are twa laddies unco gleg, 

An' blithe an' bonnie : 
As licht o' heel as Anster's Meg ; — 
Gin ye 'd a lassie's favor beg, 
I' faith she couldna stir a peg 

Ance lookin' on ye ! 

He 's a douce wiselike callant — Jim : 
Of wit aye ready. 



A VALENTINE. 107 

Cuts aff ane's sentence, t' ither's limb, 
An' whiles lie 's daft and whiles lie 's grim ; • 
But brains ? — wha 's got the like of him 
In 's wee bit heidie ? 

Dear laddie wi' the curlin' hair, 

Gentlest of ony : 
That gies kind looks an' speeches fair 
To dour auld wives as lassies rare, — 
I ken a score o' lads an' mair, 

But nane like Johnnie ! 

And gin ye learn the way to woo, 

Hae sweethearts mony, 
laddie, never say ye loe, 
An' gie fause coin for siller true ; 
A lassie's sair heart 's naething new, — 

Mind o' that, Johnnie. 

An' dinna change your luve sae fast 
For ilk face bonnie, 



108 A VALENTINE. 

Lest waefu' want track wilfu' waste, 
And a' your youthfu' years lang past, 
Ye get the erookit stick at last — 
Ochone, puir Johnnie ! 

But callants baith, tak tent, and when 

Bright e'en hae won ye, 
Tak ye your jo — and keep her ; then 
Be faithful as ye 're fond, ye ken, 
Or — gang your gate like honest men, 

Young Jim and Johnnie 

Sae when auld Time his erookit claw 

Sail lay upon ye, 
When, Jim, your feet that dance sae braw 
Are no the lightest in the ha', 
An' a' your curly haffets fa', 

My winsome Johnnie, — 

May each his ain warm ingle view, 
Cosie as ony : 



A VALENTINE. 109 

A gudewife sonsie, leal and true, 
0' bonnie dochters not a few. 
Air lads — sic lads as ye 're the noo — 
Dear Jini and Johnnie ! 



GBACE OF CLYDESIDE. 



Ah, little Grace of the golden locks. 

The hills rise fair on the shores of Clyde. 
As the merry waves wear out these rocks 
She wears my heart out, glides past and mocks , 
But heaven's gate ever stands open wide. 

The boat goes softly along, along, 

Like a river of life glows the amber Clyde ; 



GRACE OF CLYDESIDE. Ill 

Her voice floats near me like angels' song, — 
Ah, sweet love- death, but thy pangs are strong ! 
Though heaven's gate ever stands open wide. 

We walk by the shore and the stars shine bright, 

But coldly, above the solemn Clyde : 
Her arm touches mine — her laugh rings light — 
Oxe hears my silence : His merciful night 
Hides me — Can heaven be open wide ? 

I ever was but a dreamer, Grace : 

As the grey hills watch o'er the sunny Clyde, 
Standing far off, each in his place, 
I watch your young life's beautiful race, 

Apart — until heaven be opened wide. 

And sometimes when in the twilight balm 

The hills grow purple along the Clyde, 
The waves flow softly and very calm, 
I hear all nature sing this one psalm, 

That " heaven's gate ever stands open wide." 



112 GRACE OF CLYDES1DE. 

So, happy Grace, with your spirit free, 

Laugh on ! life is sweet on the banks of Clyde 

This is no blame unto thee or me ; 

Only God saw it could not be, 

Therefore His heaven stands open wide. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 



k - A daughter of the gods : divinely tall, 

And most divinely fair." 



Surely, danie Xature niade you in sonie dream 

Of old-world women — Chriemhild, or bright 

Aslauga, or Boadicea fierce and fair, 

Or Berengaria as she rose, her lips 

Yet ruddy from the poison that anoints 

Her memory still, the queen of queenly wives. 

8 



114 TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 

I marvel, who will crown you wife, you grand 
And goodly creature ! who will mount supreme 
The empty chariot of your maiden heart, 
Curb the strong will that leaps and foams and 

chafes 
Still masterless, and guide you safely home 
Unto the golden gate, where quiet sits 
Grave Matronhood, with gracious, loving eyes. 



What eyes you have, you wild gazelle o' the plain, 
You fierce hind of the forest ! now they flash, 
Now glow, now in their own dark down-dropt 

shade 
Conceal themselves a moment, as some thought, 
Too brief to be a feeling, flits across 
The April cloudland of your careless soul — 
There — that light laugh — and 'tis again full 

day. 



TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 115 

Would I could paint you, line by line, ere Time 
Touches the gorgeous picture ! your ripe mouth, 
Your white arch'd throat, your stature like to 

SauFs 
Among his brethren, yet so fitly framed 
In such harmonious symmetry, we say, 
As of a cedar among common trees, 
Never " How tall ! " but only " how fair ! " 

Who made you fair ? moulded you in the shape 
That poets dream of; sent you forth to men 
His caligrapn inscribed on every curve 
Of your brave form ? 

Is it written on your soul ? 
— -I know not. 

Woman, upon whom is laid 
Heaven's own sign-manual, Beauty, mock heaven 
not! 

Reverence thy loveliness — the outward type 

8 * 



116 TO A BEAUTIFUL WOMAN. 

Of things we understand not, nor behold 
But as in a glass, darkly ; wear it thou 
With awful gladness, grave humility, 
That not contemns, nor boasts, nor is ashamed, 
But lifts its face up prayerfully to heaven, — 
"Thou who hast made me^ make me worthy 
Thee ! " 



MART'S WEDDING. 

February 2 -5 th, 1851. 

You are to be married, Mary, 

This hour as I wakeful lie 
In the dreamy dawn of the morning, 

Your wedding" hour draws nigh ; 
Miles off, you are rising, dressing, 

Your bride maidens gay among, 
In the same old rooms we played in,- 

You and I, when we were young. 



118 mary's wedding. 

Those bridemaids — they were our playmates : 

Those known rooms, every wall, 
Could speak of our childish frolics, 

Loves, jealousies, great and small : 
Do you mind how pansies changed we, 

And smiled at the word " forget ? " — 
5 T was a girl's romance : yet somehow 

I have kept my pansy yet. 

Do you mind our poems written 

Together ? our dreams of fame — 
And of love — how we 'd share all secrets 

When that sweet mystery came ? 
It is no mystery now, Mary ; 

It was unveiled, year by year, 
Till — this is your marriage morning ; 

And I rest quiet here. 

I cannot call up your face, Mary, 
The face of the bride to-day : 



mart's wedding. 119 

You have outgrown my knowledge, 

The years have so slipp'd aw^ay. 
I see but your girlish, likeness, 

Brown eyes and brown falling hair ;- 
God knows, I did love you dearly, 

And was proud that you were fair. 

Many speak my name, Mary, 

While yours in home's silence lies : 
The future I read in toil's guerdon, 

You will read in your children's eyes : 
The past — the same past with either — 

Is to you a delightsome scene, 
But I cannot trace it clearly 

For the graves that rise between. 

I am glad you are happy, Mary ! 

These tears, could you see them fall, 
Would show, though you have forgotten, 

I have remembered all. 



120 mary's wedding. 

And though my cup is half empty 
While yours is all running o'er, 

Heaven keep you its sweetness, Mary, 
Brimming for evermore. 



BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 

Parting for Australia. 

Here sitting by the fire 

I aspire, love, I aspire — 
Not to that " other world " of your fond dreams, 

But one as nigh and nigher, 
Compared to which your real unreal seems. 

Together as to-night, 

In our light, love, in our light 
Of reunited joy appears no shade : 

From this our hope's reached height 
All things seem possible and level made. 



122 BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 

Therefore we sit and view — 
I and you, love, I and you — 

That wondrous valley over southern seas, 
Where in a country new 

You will make for me a sweet nest of ease ; 



Where I, your poor tired bird, 

(Nothing stirred ? Love, nothing stirred ?) 
May fold her wings and be no more distrest : 

Where troubles may be heard 
Like outside winds at night which deepen rest. 



Where in green pastures wide 
We Tl abide, love, we 5 11 abide, 

And keep content our patriarchal flocks, 
Till at our aged side 

Leap our young brown- faced shepherds of the 
rocks. 



BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 123 

Ah, tale that 's easy told ! 

(Hold my hand, love, tighter hold.) 
What if this face of mine, which you think fair — 

If it should ne'er grow old, 
Nor matron cap cover this maiden hair ? 



What if this silver ring 

(Loose it clings, love, yet does cling :) 
Should ne'er be changed for any other ? nay, 

This very hand I fling 
About your neck should — Hush ! to-day 's to- 
day : 



To-morrow is — ah, whose ? 

You '11 not lose, love, you '11 not lose 
This hand I pledged, if never a wife's hand, 

For tender household use, 
Led by yours fearless into a far, far land. 



124 BETWEEN TWO WORLDS. 

Kiss me and do not grieve ; 

I believe, love, I believe 
That He who holds the measure of our days, 

And did thus strangely weave 
Our opposite lives together, to His praise — 

L 

He never will divide 

Us so wide, love, us so wide : 

But will, whatever befalls us, clearly show 7 
That those in Him allied 

In life or death are nearer than they know. 



COUSIN EGBERT. 



cousin Robert, far away 
Among the lands of gold, 

How many years since we two met ?- 
You would not like it told. 

cousin Robert, buried deep 
Amid your bags of gold — 

1 thought I saw you yesternight 
Just as you were of old. 



126 COUSIN ROBERT. 

You own whole leagues — I lialf a rood 

Behind my cottage door ; 
You have your lacs of gold rupees, 

And I my children four ; 

Your tall barques dot the dangerous seas, 
My " ship 's come home " — to rest 

Safe anchored from the storms of life 
Upon one faithful breast. 

And it would cause no start or sigh, 
Nor thought of doubt or blame, 

If I should teach our little son 
His cousin Robert's name. — 

That name, however wide it rings, 

I oft think, when alone, 
I rather would have seen it graved 

Upon a churchyard stone — 



COrSIX ROBERT. 127 

Upon the white sunshiny stone 

Where cousin Aiick lies : 
Ah, sometimes, woe to him that lives ! 

Happy is he that dies ! 

Robert, Robert, many a tear — 
Though not the tears of old — 

Drops, thinking of your face last night, 
Your hand's remember' d fold ; 

A young man's face, so like, so like 

Our mothers' faces fair : 
A young man's hand, so firm to clasp, 

So resolute to dare. 

1 thought you good — I wish'd you great ; 
You were my hope, my pride : 

To know you good, to make you great, 
I once had happy died. 



128 COUSIN ROBERT. 

To tear the plague-spot from your heart, 

Place honour on your brow, 
See old age come in crowned peace — 

I almost would die now ! 

Would give — all that 's now mine to give- 

To have you sitting there, 
The cousin Robert of my youth — 

Though beggar' d, with grey hair. 

Robert, Robert, some that live 
Are dead, long ere they are old ; 

Better the pure heart of our youth 
Than palaces of gold ; 

Better the blind faith of our youth 
Than doubt, which all truth braves 

Better to mourn, Grod's children dear, 
Than laugh, the devil's slaves. 



DOUSES ROBERT. 129 

Robert, Robert, life is sweet, 
And love is boundless gain ; 

Yet if I mind of von, my heart 
Is stabVd with sudden pain : 

And as in peace this Christmas eve 

I close our quiet doors, 
And kiss " good night " on sleeping heads — 

Such bonnie curls, — like yours : 

1 fall uj)on my bended knees 

With sobs that choke each word ; — 
" On those toko err and are deceived 
Have mercy, good Lord ! " 






AT LAST. 



Dowx, clown, like a pale leaf dropping 

Under an autumn sky, 
My love dropp'd into my bosom 

Quietly, quietly. 

There was not a ra,j of sunshine 
And not a sound in the air, 

As she trembled into my bosom — 
My love, no longer fair. 



AT LAST. 131 

All year round in her beauty 
She dwelt on the tree top high : 

She danced in the suninier breezes, 
She laugh' d to the summer sky. 

I lay so low in the grass-dews, 

She sat so high above, 
She never wist of my longing, 

She never dream' d of my love. 

But when winds laid bare her dwelling, 
And her heart could find no rest, 

I call'd — and she flutter' d downward 
Into my faithful breast. 

I know that my love is fading ; 

I know I cannot fold 
Her fragrance from the frost- blight, 

Her beauty from the mould : 

9 * 



132 AT LAST. 

But a little, little longer 

She shall contented lie, 
And wither away in the sunshine 

Silently, silently. 

Come when thou wilt, grim winter, 
My year is crown' d and blest 

If wheri my loye is dying 
She die upon my breast. 



THE AURORA ON THE CLYDE. 

September, 1850. 

Ah me, how heavily the night comes down, 

Heavily, heavily : 
Fade the curved shores, the blue hills serried 

throng, 
The darkening waves we oar'd in light and 

song : 
Joy melts from us as sunshine from the sky, 

And Patience with sad eye 
Takes up her staff and drops her wither'd 
crown. 



134 THE AURORA ON THE CLYDE. 

Our small boat heaves upon the heaving river, 

Wearily, wearily : 
The flickering shore-lights come and go by fits ; 
Towering twixt earth and heaven dusk silence 

sits, 
Death at her feet ; above, infinity ; 

Between, slow drifting by, 
Our tiny boat, like life, floats onward ever. 

Pale, mournful hour, — too early night that falls 

Drearily, drearily, 
Come not so soon ! Return, return, bright day, 
Kind voices, smiles, blue mountains, sunny bay ! 
In vain ! Life's dial cannot backward go : 

The dark time comes. Lie low 
And listen, soul. Oft in the night, God calls. 

# # * * * 

Light, light on the black river ! How it 
gleams, 

Solemnly, solemnly ! 



THE AURORA ON THE CLYDE. 135 

Like troops of pale ghosts on their pensive 
march. 

Treading the far heavens in a luminous arch, 
Each after each : phantasms serene and high 

From that eternity 
Where all earth's sharpest woes grow dim as 
dreams. 

Let us drink in the glory, full and whole, 

Silently, silently : 
Gaze, till it lulls all pain, all vain desires : — 
See now, that radiant bow of pillar'd fires 
Spanning the hills like dawn, until they lie 

In soft tranquillity, 
And all night's ghastly glooms asunder roll. 

Look, look again ! the vision changes fast, 

Gloriously, gloriously : 
That was heaven's gate with its illumined road, 
But this is heaven ; the very throne of God, 



136 THE AURORA ON THE CLYDE. 

Hung with flame curtains of celestial dye 

Waving perpetually, 
While to and fro innumerous angels haste. 

I see no more the stream, the boat that moves 

Mournfully, mournfully : 
And we who sit, poor prisoners of clay : 
It is not night, it is immortal day, 
Where the One Presence fills eternity, 

And each, His servant high, 
For ever praises and for ever loves. 

soul, forget the weight that drags thee down 

Deathfully, deathfully : 
Know thyself. As this glory wraps thee round, 
Let it melt off the chains that long have bound 
Thy strength. Stand free before thy God and 
cry— 
" My Father, here am I : 
Give to me as Thou wilt — first cross, then 
crown/ ' 



AN AURORA BOREALIS. 

Eoslix Castle. 

strange soft gleam, ghostly dawn 
That never brightens unto day ; 

Ere earth's mirk pall once more be drawn 
Let us look out beyond the grey. 

It is just midnight by the clock — 
There is no sound on glen or hill, 

The moaning linn adown its rock 

Leaps, but the woods He dark and still. 



138 AN AURORA BOREALIS. 

Austere against the kindling sky- 
Yon broken turret blacker grows ; 

Harsli light, to show remorselessly 
Ruins, night hid in kind repose ! 

Nay, beauteous light, nay, light that fills 
The whole heaven like a dream of morn, 

As waking upon northern hills 

She smiles to find herself new-born, — 

Strange light, I know thou w r ilt not stay, 
That many an hour must come and go, 

Before the pale November day 

Break in the east, forlorn and slow. 

Yet blest one gleam — one gleam like this, 
When all heaven brightens in our sight, 

And the long night that was and is 
And shall be, vanishes in light : 



AN AURORA BOREALIS. 139 

O blest one hour like this ! to rise 

And see griefs shadows backward roll ; 

While bursts on unaccustomed eyes 
The glad Aurora of the soul. 



AT THE LINN-SIDE. 

Roslix. 



living, living water, 

So busy and so bright, 
Aye flashing in the morning beams, 

And sounding through the night ; 
golden- shining water — 

Would God that I might be 
A vocal message from His mouth 

Into the world, like thee ! 



AT THE LIKBT-SIDE. 14 J. 

merry, merry water, 

Which nothing e'er affrays ; 
And as it pours from rock to rock 

Nothing e'er stops or stays ; 
But past cool heathery hollows 

And gloomy pools it flows ; 
Past crags that fain would shut it in 

Leaps through — and on it goes. 

fresh' ning, sparkling water, 

voice that's never still, 
Though winter lays her dead- white hand 

On brae and glen and hill ; 
Though no leaf's left to flutter 

In woods all mute and hoar, 
Yet thou, river, night and day 

Thou runnest evermore. 

Wo foul thing can pollute thee ; 
Thy swiftness casts aside 



14:2 AT THE LINN-SIDE. 

All ill, like a good heart and true, 

However sorely tried. 
living, Hying water, 

So fresh, and bright and free — 
Heaven lead us through this changeful world 

For ever pure, like thee ! 



A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS MORNING. 

1S55. 

It is the Christmas-time : 
And up and down twixt heaven and earth, 
In glorious grief and solemn mirth, 
The shining angels climb. 

I 

And unto everything 

That lives and moves, for heaven, on earth, 
With equal share of grief and mirth, — 
The shining 1 angels sing : — 



144 A HYMN FOR OHRISTMAS-MOKNING. 

" Babes new-born, undefileci, 
In lowly hut, or mansion wide — 
Sleep safely through, this Christmas-tide 
When Jesus was a child. 

" young men, bold and free, 
In peopled town, or desert grim, 
When ye are tempted like to Him, 
' The man Christ Jesus ' see. 

" Poor mothers, with your hoard 
Of endless love and countless pain — 
Remember all her grief, her gain, 
The Mother of the Lord. 

" Mourners, half blind with woe, 
Look up ! One standeth in this place ; 
And by the pity of His face 
The Man of Sorrows know. 



A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS-MORNING. 145 

" Wanderers in far countrie, 

think of Him who came, forgot, 

To His own, and they received Him not — 

Jesus of Gralilee. 

"0 all ye who have trod 

The winepress of affliction, lay 

Your hearts before His heart this day — 

Behold the Christ of God ! " 



10 



A PSALM FOR NEW YEAR'S EVE. 

1855. 

A Friend stands at the door ; 

In either tight- closed hand 

Hiding rich gifts, three hundred and threescore : 

Waiting to strew them daily o'er the land 

Even as seed the sower. 

Each drops he, treads it in and passes by : 

It cannot be made fruitful till it die. 

good New Year, we clasp 
This warm shut hand of thine, 
Loosing for ever, with half sigh, half gasp, 
That which from ours falls like dead fingers' 
twine : 



A PSALM FOR NEW YEARNS EVE. 147 

Ay, whether fierce its grasp 

Has been, or gentle, having been, we know 

That it was blessed : let the Old Year go. 



Xew Year, teach us faith ! 

The road of life is hard : 

AYTien our feet bleed and scourging winds us 

scathe. 
Point thou to Him whose visage was more 

marr'd 
Than any man's : who saith, 
" Make straight paths for your feet " — and to 

the opprest — 
" Come ye to He, and I will give you rest." 

Yet hang some lamp-like hope 

Above this unknown way, 

Kind year, to give our spirits freer scope, 

And our hands strength to work while it is day. 

10 * 



148 A PSALM FOR NEW YEARNS EVE. 

But if that way must slope 

Tombward, bring before our fading eyes 

The lamp of life, the Hope that never dies. 

Comfort our souls with love, — 

Love of all human kind ; 

Love special, close — in which like sheltered dove 

Each weary heart its own safe nest may find ; 

And love that turns above 

Adoringly ; contented to resign 

All loves, if need be, for the Love Divine. 

Friend, come thou like a friend, 
And whether bright thy face, 
Or dim with clouds we cannot comprehend, — 
We '11 hold out patient hands, each in his place, 
And trust thee to the end. 
Knowing thou leadest onwards to those spheres 
Where there are neither days, nor months, nor 
years. 



FAITHFUL IN VANITY FAIR. 



Suggested "by one of David Scott's illustrations of "Pilgrim's 
Progress." 



The great human whirlpool — 'tis seething and 

seething : 
On ! No time for shrieking out — scarcely for 

breathing : 
All toiling and moiling, some feebler, some 

bolder, 
But each sees a fiend- face grin over his shoulder : 
Thus merrily live they in Vanity fair. 



150 FAITHFUL IN VANITY FAIR. 

The great human caldron — it boils ever higher : 
Some drowning, some sinking; while some, 

stealing nigher, 
Athirst, come and lean o'er its outermost verges, 
Or touch, as a child's feet touch, timorous, the 
surges — 
One plunge — lo ! more souls swamp'd in Va- 
nity fair. 

Let 's live while we live ; for to-morrow all 's over : 
Drink deep, drunkard bold ; and kiss close, mad- 
den' d lover ; 
Smile, hypocrite, smile ; it is no such hard labour, 
While each stealthy hand stabs the heart of his 
neighbour — 
Faugh ! Fear not : we 've no hearts in Yanity 
fair. 

The mad crowd divides and then soon closes after : 
Afar towers the pyre. Through the shouting and 
laughter 



FAITHFUL US VANITY FAIR. 151 

" What new sport is this ? " gasps a reveller, 

half turning. — 
" One Faithful, meek fool, who is led to the 
burning, 
He cumber' d us sorely in Vanity fair. 

" A dreamer, who held every man for a brother ; 
A coward, who, srnit on one cheek, gave the other ; 
A fool, whose blind soul took as truth all our 

Too simple to live, so best fitted for dying : 
Sure, such are best swept out of Vanity fair." 



II. 

Silexce ! though the flames arise and quiver 
Silence ! though the crowd howls on for ever 
Silence ! Through this fiery purgatory 
Grod is leading up a soul to glory. 



152 FAITHFUL IN VANITY FAIR. 

See, the white lips with, no moans are trembling, 
Hate of foes or plaint of friends' dissembling ; 
If sighs come — his patient prayers outlive them, 
" Lord — these know not what they do. Forgive 
them ! " 

Thirstier still the roaring flames are glowing ; 
Fainter in his ear the laughter growing ; 
Brief will last the fierce and fiery trial, 
Angel welcomes drown the earth denial. 

Now the amorous death-fires, gleaming ruddy, 
Clasp him close. Down drops the quivering body, 
While through harmless flames ecstatic flying 
Shoots the beauteous soul. This, this is dying. 

Lo, the opening sky with splendour rifted; 
Lo, the palm-branch for his hands uplifted : 
Lo, the immortal chariot, cloud-descending, 
And its legion'd angels close attending ; 



FAITHFUL IN VANITY FAIR. 153 

Let his poor dust mingle with, the embers 
While the crowds sweep on and none remembers : 
Saints unnumbered through the Infinite Glory, 
Praising Grod, recount the martyr's story 



HER LIKENESS. 



A girl, who has so many wilful ways 

She would have caused Job's patience to for- 
sake him ; 
Yet is so rich in all that '& girlhood's praise, 
Did Job himself upon her goodness gaze, 
A little better she would surely make him. 

Yet is this girl I sing in nought uncommon, 
And very far from angel yet, I trow. 

Her faults, her sweetnesses, are purely human ; 

Yet she 's more loveable as simple woman 
Than any one diviner that I know. 



HER LIKENESS. 155 

Therefore I wish, that she niay safely keep 

This wonianhede, and change not, only grow ; 
From maid to matron, youth to age, may creep, 
And in perennial blessedness, still reap 

On every hand of that which she doth sow. 



ONLY A DREAM. 

" I waked— she fled : and day brought back my night." 

Methought I saw thee yesternight 

Sit by me in the olden guise, 
The white robes and the palm foregone, 
Weaving instead of amaranth crown 

A web of mortal dyes. 

I cried, " Where hast thou been so long ? " 
(The mild eyes turned and mutely smiled : 

" Why dwellest thou in far-off lands ? 

What is that web within thy hands ? " 
— "I work for thee, my child/' 



ONLY A DREAM. 157 

I clasp' d thee in my arms and wept ; 

I kiss'd thee oft with passion wild : 
I pour'd fond questions, tender blame ; 
Still thy sole answer was the same, — 

"I work for thee, my child/' 

" Come and walk with me as of old." 
Then earnest thou, silent as before ; 
We pass'd along that churchyard way 
We used to tread each sabbath day, 
Till one trod earth no more. 

I felt thy hand upon my arm, 

Beside me thy meek face I saw, 
Yet through the sweet familiar grace 
A something spiritual could trace 

That left a nameless awe. 

Trembling I said, " Long years have pass'd 
Since thou wert from my side beguiled ; 



158 ONLY A DREAM. 

Now thou *rt return'd and all shall be 
As was before." — Half-pensively 

Thou answered' st — "Nay, my child." 

I pleaded sore : " Hast thou forgot 

The love wherewith we loved of old, — 
The long sweet days of converse blest, 
The nights of slumber on thy breast, — 
Art thou to me grown cold ? " 

There beam'd on me those eyes of heaven 

That wept no more, but ever smiled \ 
" Love only is love in that Home 
Where I abide — where, till thou come, 
I work for thee, my child." 

If from my sight thou passed' st then, 

Or if my sobs the dream exiled, 
I know not : but in memory clear 
I seem these strange words still to hear, 
" 1 work for thee, my child." 



TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. 



Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

My new-christen'd baby Alice, 

Can there ever rhymes be found 
To express my wishes for thee 
In a silvery flowing, worthy 

Of that silvery sound ? 
Bonnie Alice, Lady Alice, 

Sure, this sweetest name must be 
A true omen to thee, Alice, 

Of a life's long melody. 



160 TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

Mayst thou prove a golden chalice, 

Filled with holiness like wine : 
With rich blessings running o'er, 
Yet replenished evermore 

From a fount divine : 
Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

When this future comes to thee, 
In thy young life's brimming chalice 

Keep some drops of balm for me ! 



Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

Mayst thou grow a goodly palace, 

Fitly framed from roof to floors, 
Pure unto the inmost centre, 
While high thoughts like angels enter 

At the open doors : 



TO MY GODCHILD ALICE. 161 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, 

When this beauteous sight I see, 
In thy woman-heart's wide palace 

Keep one nook of love for me. 

Alice, Alice, little Alice, — 

Sure the verse halts out of malice 

To the thoughts it feebly bears, 
And thy name's soft echoes, ranging 
From quaint rhyme to rhyme, are changing 

Into silent prayers. 
God be with thee, little Alice ; 

Of His bounteousness may He 
Fill the chalice, build the palace, 

Here, unto eternity ! 



ll 



EIGHTEEN SONNETS. 



RESIGNING. 

"Poor heart, what bitter words we speak 
When God speaks of resigning ! " 

Children, that lay their pretty garlands by 

So piteously, yet with a humble mind ; 

Sailors, who, when their ship rocks in the wind. 

Cast out her freight with half- averted eye, 

Riches for life exchanging solemnly, 

Lest they should never reach the wish'd-for 

shore ; — 
Thus we, Father, standing Thee before, 
Do lay down at Thy feet without a sigh, 
Each after each, our precious things and rare, 
Our dear heart-jewels and our garlands fair. 
Perhaps Thou knewest that the flowers would die, 
And the long- voyaged hoards be found but dust, 
So took'st them, while unchanged. To Thee we 

trust 
For incorruptible treasure : Thou art just. 



SAINT ELIZABETH OF BOHEMIA. 

Would that we two were lying 

Beneath the churchyard sod, 
With our limbs at rest in the green earth's breast, 

And our souls at home with God. 

Kingsley's Saint's Tragedy- 

I. 

I never lay me down to sleep at night 
But in my heart I sing that little song : 
The angels hear it as, a pitying throng, 
They touch my burning lids with fingers bright 
As moonbeams, pale, impalpable, and light : 
And when my daily pious tasks are done, 
And all my patient prayers said one by one, 
Grod hears it. Seems it sinful in His sight 
That round my slow burnt -offering of quench'd 

will 
One quivering human sigh creeps wind-like still? 
That when my orisons celestial fail 
Rises one note of natural human wail ? 
Dear lord, spouse, hero, martyr, saint ! ere long, 
I trust, God will forgive my singing that poor 

song. 

11* 



164 



II. 

A year ago I bade my little son 
Bear upon pilgrimage a heavy load 
Of alms ; he cried, half- fainting on the road, 
" Mother, oh mother, would the day were done ! " 
Him I reproved with tears, and said, " Gro on ! 
Nor pause nor murmur till thy task be o'er/' — 
Would not God say to me the same, and more ? 
I will not sing that song. Thou, dearest one, 
Husband — no, brother !— stretch thy firm right 

hand 
And let mine grasp it. Now, I also stand, 
My woman weakness nerved to strength like thine, 
We '11 quaff life's aloe-cup as if 't were wine 
Each to the other ; journeying on apart 
Till at heaven's golden doors we two leap heart 

to heart. 



A MABBIAGE-TABLE. 

W. H. L. and F. E. 

There was a marriage-table where One sat, 
Haply, unnoticed, till they craved His aid : 
Thenceforward does it seem, that He has made 
All virtuous marriage-tables consecrate : 
And so, at this, where without pomp or state 
We sit, and only say, or mute are fain 
To wish the simple words " Grod bless these 

twain ! " 
I think that He who " in the midst " doth wait 
Oft-times, would not abjure our prayerful cheer, 
But, as at Cana, list with gracious ear 
To us, beseeching, that the Love divine 
May ever at their household table sit, 
Make all His servants who encompass it, 
And change life's bitterest waters into wine ! 



MICHAEL THE ARCHANGEL. 



A STATUETTE. 



I. 

My white archangel, with thy stedfast eyes 
Beholding all this empty ghost-filTd room, 
Thy clasp'd hands resting on the sword of doom, 
Thy firm, close lips, not made for human sighs 
Or smiles, or kisses sweet, or bitter cries, 
Rut for divine exhorting, holy song, 
And righteous counsel, bold from seraph tongue. 
Beautiful angel, strong as thou art wise, 
Would that the sight of thee made wise and 



■*-&" 



strong ! 
Would that this sheathed sword of thine, which 

lies 
Stonily idle, could gleam out among 
The spiritual hosts of enemies 
That tempting shriek — "Requite thou wrong 

with wrong." 
Lama Sabachthani — How long, how long ? 



167 



II. 

Michael, the leader of the hosts of Grod, 
"Who warr'd with Satan for the body of him 
Whom, living, Grod had loved — If cherubim 
With cherubim contended for one clod 
Of human dust, for forty years that trod 
The gloomy desert of Heaven's chastisement, 
Are there not ministering angels sent 
To battle with the devils that roam abroad, 
Clutching our living souls ? " The living, still 
The living, they shall praise Thee ! "—Let some 

great 
Invisible spirit enter in and fill 
The howling chambers of hearts desolate ; 
With looks like thine, Michael, strong and 

wise, 
My white archangel with the stedfast eyes. 



I. 

BEATRICE TO DANTE. 

" Guardaini beu. Ben son, ben son." * 

Regard me well : I am thy love, thy love ; 
Thy blessing, thy delight, thy hope, thy peace : 
Thy joy above all joys that break and cease 
When their full waves in widest circles move : 
Thy bird of comfort, thine eternal dove, 
Whom thou did send out of thy mournful breast 
To nutter back and point thee to thy rest : 
Thine angel, who forgets her crown star- wove 
To come to thee with folded woman-hands 
Pleading — " Look on me, Beatrice, who stands 
Before thee ; by the Triune Light divine 
Lndazzled, still beholds thy human face, 
And is more happy in this happy place 
That thou alone art hers and she is thine." 
* Suggested by a statue of Beatrice, bearing this motto. 



II. 

DANTE TO BEATRICE. 

I see th.ee, gliding towards me with slow pace 
Across the azure fields of paradise, 
Where thine each footstep makes a star arise. 
So from, this heart's once void but infinite space 
Each strange sweet touch of thy celestial grace 
In the old mortal life, struck out some spark 
To light the world, though all my heaven lay 
dark. 

Beatrice, cypresses enlace 

My laurels : none have grown save tear-be- 
dew' d — 
Salt tears that sank into the earth imvieVd, 
And sprang up green to form a crown of bays. 
Take it ! At thy dear feet I lay my all, 
TThat men my honours, virtues, glories, call : 

1 lived, loved, suffered, sung — for thy sole praise. 



A QUESTION 
I. 

Soul, spirit, genius — which, thou art, — that, 

whence 
I know not, rose upon this mortal frame 
Like the sun o'er the mountains, all aflame, 
Seen large through mists of childish innocence, 
And year by year with me up travelling thence, 
As hour by hour the day-star, madest aspire 
My nature, interpenetrate with fire 
It felt but understood not ; strong, intense, 
Wisdom with folly mix'd, and gold with clay ; — 
Soul, thou hast journey 'd with me all this way, 
Oft hidden and overclouded, oft array'd 
In scorching splendours that my earth -life 

burn'd ; 
Yet ever unto thee my true life turn'd, 
For, dim or clear, 't was thou my day light made. 



171 



II. 



Soul, dwelling oft in God's infinitiide, 
And sometimes seeming no more part of me — 
This me, worms' heritage — than that sun can be 
Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued, — 
Whence earnest thou ? whither goest thou ? I, 

subdued 
With awe of mine own being — thus sit still, 
Dumb on the summit of this lonely hill, 
Whose dry Xoveinber grasses dew-bestrew'd 
Mirror a million suns — That sun, so bright, 
Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night : 
Art thou afraid, who solitary hast trod 
A path I know not, from a source to a bourne. 
Both which I know not ? fear'st thou to return 
Alone, even as thou earnest, alone, to God ? 



ANGEL FACES. 

" And with the dawn those angel faces smile 
That I have loved long since, and lost awhile." 

I. 

I shall not paint them. Grod them sees, and I : 
No other can, nor need. They have no form, 
I may not close with human kisses warm 
Their eyes which shine afar or from on high, 
But never will shine nearer till I die. 
How long, how long ! See, I am growing old ; 
I have quite ceased to note in my hair's fold 
The silver threads that there in ambush lie ; 
Some angel faces bent from heaven would pine 
To trace the sharp lines graven upon mine : 
What matter ? in the wrinkles ploughed by care 
Let age tread after, sowing immortal seeds ; 
All this life's harvest yielded, wheat or weeds, 
Is reap'd, methinks : at last my little field lies 
bare. 



II. 



But in the night time, 'twixt me and the stars. 

The angel faces still come glimmering by ; 
Xo death-pale shadow, no averted eye 
]\Iarking the inevitable doom that bars 
Me from them. 2sot a cloud their aspect mars ; 
And my sick spirit walks with them hand in 

hand 
By the cool waters of a pleasant land : 
Sings with them o'er again, without its jars, 
The psalm of life, that ceased as one by one 
Their voices dropping off, left mine alone 
TTith dull monotonous wail to grieve the air. — 

solitary love, that art so strong, 

1 think God will have pity on thee ere long. 
And take thee where thou ''It find those angel 

faces fair. 



SUNDAY MORNING BELLS. 

From tlie near city comes the clang of bells : 

Their hundred jarring diverse tones combine 

In one faint misty harmony, as fine 

As the soft note yon winter robin swells. — 

What if to Thee in Thine Infinity 

These multiform and many-colour'd creeds 

Seem but the robe man wraps as masquers' weeds 

Round the one living truth Thou givest him — 

Thee? 
What if these varied forms that worship prove, 
Being heart-worship, reach Thy perfect ear 
But as a monotone, complete and clear, 
Of which the music is, through Christ's name, 

Love ? 
For ever rising in sublime increase 
To " Glory in the Highest— on earth peace ? " 



CCEUR DE LION : 

Marochetti's Statue in the Great Exhibition of 1851. 



Richard the Lioxhearted, crowned serene 

With tlie true royalty of perfect man ; 
Seated in stone above the praise or ban 
Of these mix'd crowds who come and gaping 

lean 
As if to see what the word " king " might mean 
In those old times. Behold ! what need that 

rim 
Of crown 'gainst this blue sky, to signal him 
A monarch, of the monarchs that have been 
And, perhaps, are not ? — Read his destinies 
In the full brow o ? er-arching kingly eyes, 
In the strong hands, grasping both rein and 

sword, 
In the close mouth, so sternly beautiful : — 
Surely, a man who his own spirit can rule ; 
Lord of himself, therefore his brethren's lord. 



176 



II. 



" Richard, mon roi" So minstrels sigh'd. 
The niany-centuried voice dies fast away 
Amidst the turmoil of our modern day. 
How know we but these green-wreath' d legends 

hide 
An ugly truth that never could abide 
In this our living world's far purer air ? — 
What matter ! — Noble statue, rest thou there, 
King Richard, of all chivalry the pride ; 
Or if not the true Richard, still a type 
Of the old regal glory, fallen, o'er-ripe, 
And giving place to better blossoming : 
Stand — imaging the grand heroic days ; 
And let our little children come and gaze, 
Whispering with innocent awe — " This was a 

King" 



GT7NS OF PEACE. 

Sunday Night, March 30th, 1856. 

Ghosts of dead soldiers in the battle slain, 
Ghosts of dead heroes dying nobler far 
In the long patience of inglorious war, 
Of famine, cold, heat, pestilence, and pain, — 
All ye whose loss makes our victorious gain — 
This quiet night, as sounds the cannon's tongue, 
Do ye look down the trembling stars among, 
Viewing our peace and war with like disdain ? 
Or, wiser grown since reaching those new spheres, 
Smile ye on those poor bones ye sow'd as seed 
For this our harvest, nor regret the deed ? — 
Yet lift one cry with us to Heavenly ears — 
"Strike with Thy bolt the next red flag unfurl'd, 
And make all wars to cease throughout the 
world." 



DAVID'S CHILD. 

— "Is the child dead ? " — And they said, " He is dead." 

In face of a great sorrow like to death. 
How do we wrestle night and day with tears ; 
How do we fast and pray ; how small appears 
The outside world, while, hanging on some 

breath 
Of fragile hope, the chamber where we lie 
Includes all space. — But if, sudden at last 
The blow falls ; or by incredulity 
Fond led, we — never having one thought cast 
Towards years where " the child " was not — see 

it die, 
And with it all our future, all our past, — 
We just look round us with a dull surprise : 
For lesser pangs we had fill'd earth with cries 
Of wild and angry grief that would be heard : — 
But when the heart is broken — not a word. 



A WORD EN T SEASON. 

"This is a day the Lord hath made." — Thus spake 

The good religious heart, unstained, unworn, 

Watching the golden glory of the morn. — 

Since, on each happy day that came to break 

Like sunlight o'er this silent life of mine, 

Yea, on each beauteous morning I saw shine, 

I have remember' d these your words, rejoiced 

And been glad in it. So, o'er many-voiced 

Tumultuous harmonies of tropic seas, 

Which chant an everlasting farewell grand 

Between ourselves and you and the old land, 

Receive this token : many words chance-sown 

May oftentimes have taken root and grown, 

To bear good fruit perennially ^ like these. 
12 * 



THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. 



Bahe and sunshiny, bright and bleak, 
Rounded cold as a dead maid's cheek, 
Folded white as a sinner's shroud, 
Or wandering angel's robes of cloud, — 

Well I know, well I know 
Over the fields the path through the snow. 

Narrow and rough it lies between 

Wastes where the wind sweeps, biting keen : 

Every step of the slippery road 

Marks where some weary foot has trod ; 

Who '11 go, who '11 go 
After the rest on the path through the snow ? 



THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. 181 

They who would tread it must walk alone, 
Silent and solemn — one by one : 
Dearest to dearest can only say, 
" My heart ! I '11 follow thee all the way, 

As we go, as we go, 
Each after each on this path through the snow." 

It may be under that western haze 
Lurks the omen of brighter days ; 
That each sentinel tree is quivering 
Deep at its core with the sap of spring, 

And while we go, while we go, 
Green grass-blades pierce through the glittering 
snow. 

It may be the unknown path will tend 
Never to any earthly end, 
Die with the dying day obscure, 
And never lead to a human door : 

That none know who did go 
Patiently once on this path through the snow. 



182 THE PATH THROUGH THE SNOW. 

jNo matter, no matter ! the path shines plain ; 
These pure snow-crystals will deaden pain ; 
Above, like stars in the deep blue dark, 
Eyes that love us look down and mark. 

Let us go, let us £0, 
Whither heaven leads in the path through the 
snow. 



THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. 



Wavy and bright in the summer air, 
Like a pleasant sea when the wind blows fair, 
And its roughest breath has scarcely curl'd 
The green highway to a distant world, — 
Soft whispers passing from shore to shore, 
As from hearts content, yet desiring more — 

Who feels forlorn, 
Wandering thus down the path through the 
corn ? 

A short space since, and the dead leaves lay 
Mouldering under the hedgerow gray, 



184 THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. 

Nor huni of insect, nor voice of bird, 
O'er the desolate field was ever heard ; 
Only at eve the pallid snow 
Blush'd rose-red in the red sun-glow ; 

Till, one blest morn, 
Shot np into life the young green corn. 

Small and feeble, slender and pale, 
It bent its head to the winter gale, 
Hearken'd the wren's soft note of cheer, 
Hardly believing spring was near : 
Saw chesnuts bud out and campions blow, 
And daisies mimic the vanished snow 

Where it was born, 
On either side of the path through the corn. 

The corn, the corn, the beautiful corn, 
Rising wonderful, morn by morn : 
First, scarce as high as a fairy's wand, 
Then, just in reach of a child's wee hand ; 



THE PATH THROUGH THE CORN. 185 

Then growing, growing, tall, brave, and strong, 
With the voice of new harvests in its song ; 

While in fond scorn 
The lark out- carols the whispering corn. 

A strange, sweet path, forrn'd day by day, 

How, w^hen, and wherefore, we cannot say ; 

No more than of our life-paths we know^ 

Whither they lead us, why we go ; 

Or whether our eyes shall ever see 

The wheat in the ear or the fruit on the tree ; 

Yet, who 's forlorn ? — 
He who water' d the furrows can ripen the corn. 



THE GOOD OF IT. 

A Cynic's Song. 

Some men strut proudly, all purple and gold, 
Hiding queer deeds 'neath a cloak of good 
fame ; 
I creep along, braving hunger and cold, 

To keep my heart stainless as well as my name ; 
So, so, where is the good of it ? 

Some clothe bare Truth in fine garments of words, 
Fetter her free limbs with cumbersome state : 



THE GOOD OF IT. 187 

With me, let me sit at the lordliest boards, 
" I love M means / love, and " I hate " means 
I hate, 
But, but, where is the good of it ? 



Some have rich dainties and costly attire, 

Guests fluttering round them and duns at the 
door : 
I crouch alone at my plain board and fire, 
Enjoy what I pay for and scorn to have more. 
Yet, yet, where is the good of it ? 



Some gather round them a phalanx of friends, 

Scattering affection like coin in a crowd ; 
I keep my heart for the few that Heaven sends, 
Where they '11 find their names writ when I 
lie in my shroud. 
Still, still, where is the good of it ? 



188 THE GOOD OF IT. 

Some toy with, love, lightly come, lightly go, 
A blithe game at hearts, little worth, little 
cost : — 
I staked my whole soul on one desperate throw, 
A life 'gainst an hour's sport. We play'd ; 
and I — lost. 
Ha, ha, such was the good of it ! 



MORAL : ADDED ON HIS DEATH-BED. 

Turn the Past's mirror backward. Its shadows 
removed, 
The dim confused mass becomes soften'd, 
sublime : 
I have work'd — I have felt — I have lived — I 
have loved, 
And each was a step towards the goal I now 
climb : 
Thou, God, Thou sawest the good of it. 



MINE. 

For a German Air. 

how my heart is beating as her name I keep 

repeating, 
And I drink up joy like wine : 
how my heart is beating as her name I keep 
repeating, 
For the lovely girl is mine ! 
She 's rich, she 's fair, beyond compare, 
Of noble mind, serene and kind — 
And how niv heart is beating as her name I 
keep repeating, 
For the lovely girl is mine ! 



190 MINE. 

how my heart is beating as her name I keep 
repeating, 
In a music soft and fine ; 
how my heart is beating as her name I keep 
repeating, 
For the girl I love is mine. 
She owns no lands, has no white hands, 
Her lot is poor, her life obscure ; — 
Yet how my heart is beating as her name I keep 
repeating, 
For the girl I love is mine ! 



A GHOST AT THE DANCING. 



A wixd-swept tulip-bed— a eolour'd cloud 
Of butterflies careering in the air — 
A many-figured arras stirr'd to life, 
And merry unto midnight music dumb — 
So the dance whirls. Do any think of thee, 
Amiel, Amiel? 

Friends greet each other — countless rills of talk 
Meander round, scattering a spray of smiles. 
Surely — the news was false. One minute more, 
And thou wilt stand here, tall and quiet-eyed, 
Shaksperian beauty in thy pensive face, 
Amiel, Amiel. 



192 A GHOST AT THE DANCING. 

Many here knew and loved thee — I nor loved, 
Scarce knew — yet in thy place a shadow glides, 
And a face shapes itself from empty air, 
Watching the dancers, grave and quiet- eyed — 
Eyes that now see the angels evermore, 
Amiel, Amiel. 

On just such night as this, 'midst dance and song, 

I bade thee carelessly a light good-bye — 

" Good-bye " — saidst thou ; " A happy journey 

home ! " 
Was the unseen death- angel at thy side, 
Mocking those words — " A happy journey home" 
Amiel, Amiel? 

Ay, we play fool's play still; thou hast gone 

home. 
While we dance here, a mile hence o'er thy grave 
Drifts the deep New Tear snow. The wondrous 

gate 



A GHOST AT THE BAXCIXG. 193 

We spoke of, thou hast enter 'd ; I without 
Grope ignorant still — thou dost its secrets know, 
Amiel, Aniiel. 

What if, thus sitting where we sat last year, 
Thou earnest, took'st up our broken thread of 

talk, 
And told'st of that new Home, which far I view, 
As children, wandering on through wintry fields, 
Mark on the hill the father's window shine, 
Amiel, Aniiel? 

No. We shall see thy pleasant face no more. 
Thy words on earth are ended. Yet thou liyest ; 
'T is we who die. — I too, one day, shall come, 
And, unseen, watch these shadows, quiet-eyed — 
Then flit back to thy land, the living land, 
Amiel, Amiel. 



13 



MY CHBISTIAN NAME. 



My Christian name, my Christian name, 

I never hear it now : 
None have the right to utter it, 

'T is lost, I know not how. 
My worldly name the world speaks loud ; 

Thank God for well- earn' d fame ! 
But silence sits at my cold hearth, — 

I have no household name. 

My Christian name, my Christian name. 

It has an uncouth sound ; 
My mother chose it out of those 

In Bible pages found : 



MY CHRISTIAN NAME. 195 

Mother, whose accents made half sweet 

What else I held in shame, 
Dost thou remember up in heaven 

My poor lost Christian name ? 



Brothers and sisters, mockers oft 

Of the quaint name I bore, 
Would I could leap back years, to hear 

Te shout it out once more ! 
One speaks it still, in written lines, 

The last fraternal claim : 
But the wide seas between us drown 

Its sound — my Christian name. 



I had a long dream once. Her voice 
Might breathe the homely word, 

And make it music — as love makes 
Any name, said or heard. 

13* 



196 MY CHRISTIAN NAME. 

0, dumb, dunib lips ! — 0, silent heart ! 

Though, it is no one's blame : 
Now while I live I '11 never hear 

Her speak my Christian name. 

Grod send her bliss, and send me rest ! 

If her white footsteps calm 
Should track my bleeding feet, God make 

To them each blood- drop balm ! 
Peace — peace. mother, put thou forth 

Thine elder, holier claim, 
And the first word I hear in heaven 

May be my Christian name. 



A DEAD BABY. 



Little soul, for such, brief space that enter'd 
In this little bodv straight and chilly, 

Little life that fluttered and departed, 
Like a moth from an unopen'd lily, 

Little being, without name or nation, 

Where is now thy place among creation ? 

Little dark-lash' d eyes, unclosed neyer, 

Little mouth, by earthly food ne'er tainted, 

Little breast, that just once heayed, and settled 
In eternal slumber, white and sainted, — 

Child, shall I in future children's faces 

See some pretty look that thine re-traces ? 



198 A DEAD BABY. 

Is this thrill that strikes across my heart-strings, 
And in dew beneath my eyelid gathers, 

Token of the bliss thou might'st have brought me, 
Dawning of the love they call a father's ? 

Do I hear through this still room a sighing 

Like thy spirit to me its author crying ? 

Whence didst come and whither take thy journey, 
Little soul, of me and mine created ? 

Must thou lose us, and we thee, for ever, 
strange life, by minutes only dated ? 

Or new flesh assuming, just to prove us, 

In some other babe return and ]ove us ? 

Idle questions all : yet our beginning, 

Like our ending, rests with the Life-sender, 

With whom nought is lost, and nought spent 
vainly : 
Unto Him this little one I render. 

Hide the face — the tiny coffin cover : 

So, our first dream, our first hope — is over. 



FOR MUSIC. 



Along the shore, along the shore 

I see the wavelets meeting : 
But thee I see — ah, never more, 

For all my wild heart's beating. 
The little wavelets come and go, 
The tide of life ebbs to and fro, 

Advancing and retreating : 
But from the shore, the changeless shore, 

The sea is parted never : 
And mine I hold thee evermore, 

For ever and for ever. 



200 FOR MUSIC. 

Along the shore, along the shore, 

I hear the waves resounding, 
But thou wilt cross them never more, 

For all my wild heart's bounding : 
The moon comes out above the tide, 
And quiets all the billows wide 

Her pathway bright surrounding : 
Thus on the shore, the dreary shore, 

I walk with weak endeavour ; 
I have thy love's light evermore, 

For ever and for ever. 



THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE. 



Sing away, ay, sing away, 

Merry little bird, 
Always gayest of the gay, 
Though a woodland roundelay 

You ne'er sung nor heard ; 
Though your life from youth to age 
Passes in a narrow cage. 

Near the window wild birds fly, 

Trees are waving round : 
Fair things everywhere you spy 
Through the glass pane's mystery, 
Your small life's small bound : 



202 THE CANARY IN HIS CAGE. 

Nothing hinders your desire 
But a little gilded wire. 



Like a human soul you seem 

Shut in golden bars : 
Placed amidst earth's sunshine-stream, 
Singing to the morning-beam, 

Dreaming 'neath the stars ; 
Seeing all life's pleasures clear, — 
But they never can come near. 



Never ! Sing, bird-poet mine, 

As most poets do ; — 
Gruessing by an instinct fine 
At some happiness divine 

Which they never knew. 
Lonely in a prison bright 
Hymning for the world's delight. 



THE CANARY IX HIS CAGE. 203 

Yet, my birdie, you 're content 

In your tiny cage : 
Not a carol thence is sent 
But for happiness is meant — 

Wisdom pure as sage : 
Teaching, the true poet's part 
Is to sing with merry heart. 

So, lie down, thou peevish pen, 

Eyes, shake off all tears ; 
And, my wee bird, sing again : 
I '11 translate your song to men 

In these future years : — 
" Howsoe'er thy lot *s assigned, 

Bear it with a cheerful mind." 



CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. 

AN OLD IVIAN's CONFESSION. 

She lias a large still heart — this lady of mine 
(Not mine, i' faith ! nor would I that she were) ; 
She walks this world of ours like Grecian 

nymph, 
Pure with a marble pureness, moving on 
Among the herd of men, environ' d round 
With native airs of deep Olympian calm. 
I have a great love for this lady of mine : 
I like to watch her motions, trick of face, 



CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. 205 

And turn of thought, when speaking high and 

wise 
The tongue of gods, not men. Ay, every day, 
And twenty times a day, I start to catch 
Some look or gesture of familiar mould, 
And then my panting soul leans forth to her 
Like some sick traveller who astonied sees, 
Gliding across the distant twilight fields— 
His lovely, lost, beloved memory-fields, — 
The shadowy people of an earlier world. 

I have a friend, how dearly liked, heart- warm, 
Did I confess, sure she and all would smile : 
I watch her as she steals in some dull room 
That brightens at her entrance — slow lets fall 
A word or two of wise simplicity, 
Then goes, and at her going all seems dark. 
Little she knows this ; little thinks each brow 
Lightens, each heart grows purer 'neath her 
eyes, 



206 CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. 

Good, honest eyes — clear, upward, righteous 

eyes, 
That look as if they saw the dim unseen, 
And learnt from thence their deep compassionate 

calm. 
Why do I precious hold this friend of mine ? 
Why in our talks, our quiet fireside talks, 
When we, two earnest travellers through the 

dark, 
Grasp at the guiding threads that homeward 

lead, 
Seems it ? s another soul than hers looks out 
From these her eyes ? — until I oft-times start 
And quiver, as when some soft ignorant hand 
Touches the barb hid in a long-heaFd wound. 
Yet still no blame, but thanks to thee, dear 

friend, 
Ay, even when we wander back at eve, 
Thy careless arm loose linked within my own — 
The same height as I gaze down — nay, the hair 



CONSTANCY EN INCONSTANCY. 207 

Her very colour — fluttering 'neath the stars — 
The same large stars which lit that earlier 
world. 

I have another love — whose dewy looks 

Are fresh with life's young dawn. I prophesy 

The streak of light now quivering on the hills 

Will broaden out into a glorious day. 

Thou sweet one, meek as good, and good as fair, 

Wise as a woman, harmless as a child, 

I love thee well ! And yet not thee, not thee, 

God knows — they know who sit among the 

stars. 
As one whose sun was darkened before noon, 
Creeps patiently along the twilight lands, 
Sees glow-worms, meteors, or tapers kind 
Of an hour's burning, stops awhile to mark, 
Thanks Heaven for them, but never calls them 

day— 
So love I these, and more. Yet thou, my sun, 



208 CONSTANCY IN INCONSTANCY. 

That rose, leap'd to thy zenith, sat there 

throned, 
And made the whole earth day — look, if thou 

canst, 
Out of thy veiled glory, and behold 
How all these lesser lights but come and go 
Mere reflexes of thee. Be it so ! I keep 
My face unto the eastward, where thou stand ? st, 
I know thou stand' st — behind the purpling hills ; 
And I shall wake and find morn in the world. 



BURIED TO-DAY. 

February 23, 1858. 

Buried to-day ; 

When the soft green buds are bursting out, 
And up on the south wind comes a shout 

Of village boys and girls at play 

In the mild spring evening gray. 

Taken away ; 

Sturdy of heart and stout of limb, 

From eyes that drew half their light from 

him, 

14 



210 BURIED TO-DAY. 

And put low, low, underneath the clay, 
In his spring — on this spring day. 

Passes away 

All the pride of boy-life begun, 
All the hope of life yet to run ; 

Who dares to question when One saith " Nay ?" 

Murmur not — only pray. 

Enters to-day 

Another body in church-yard sod, 
Another soul on the life in God. 

His Christ was buried — and lives alway : 

Trust Him, and go your way. 



THE MILL. 

For an Irish Tune. 

Winding and grinding, 

Round goes the mill : 
Winding and grinding, 

Should never stand still. 
Ask not if neighbour 

Grind great or small : 
Spare not your labour, 

Grind your wheat all. 

Winding and grinding round goes the mill : 

Winding and grinding should never stand still. 
14 * 



212 THE MILL. 

Winding and grinding 

Work through the day, 
Grief never minding — 

Grind it away ! 
What though tears dropping 

Rust as they fall ? 
Have no wheel stopping — 

Work comforts all. 
Winding and grinding round goes the mill : 
Winding and grinding should never stand still. 



NORTH WIND. 

Loud wind, strong wind, sweeping o'er the 
mountains, 
Fresh wind, free wind, blowing from the sea, 
Pour forth thy vials like streams from airy 
fountains, 
Draughts of life to me. 

Clear wind, cold wind, like a Xorthern giant, 
Stars brightly threading thy cloud-driven 
hair, 

Thrilling the blank night with a voice defiant, 
Lo ! I meet thee there. 

Wild wind, bold wind, like a strong-arni'd 
angel, 

Clasp me and kiss me with thy kisses divine ; 



214 NORTH WIND. 

Breathe in this dull'd ear thy secret sweet 
evangel — 
Mine — and only mine. 

Fierce wind, mad wind, howling o'er the nations, 
Knew'st thou how leapeth my heart as thou 
goest by, 
Ah, thou wouldst pause awhile in a sudden 
patience, 
Like a human sigh. 

Sharp wind, keen wind, cutting as word-arrows, 
Empty thy quiverful ! pass by ! What is't to 
thee, 
That in some mortal eyes life's whole bright 
circle narrows 
To one misery ? 

Loud wind, strong wind, stay thou in the moun- 
tains, 
Fresh wind, free wind, trouble not the sea ; 
Or lay thy deathly hand upon my heart's warm 
fountains, 
That I hear not thee. 



NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 



" Two hands upon the breast and labour is past." 

Russian Proverb. 



" Two hands upon the breast, 

And labour 's done ; 
Two pale feet eross'd in rest — 

The race is won ; 
Two eyes with coin-weights shut, 

And all tears cease ; 
Two lips where grief is mute, 

Anger at peace ;" — 



216 NOW AND AFTERWARDS. 

So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot : 
God in his kindness answereth not. 

" Two hands to work addrest 

Aye for His praise ; 

Two feet that never rest 

Walking His ways ; 
Two eyes that look above 

Through all their tears ; 
Two lips still breathing love, 
Not wrath, nor fears ; " 
So pray we afterwards, low on our knees ; 
Pardon those erring prayers ! Father, hear 
these ! 



A SKETCH. 



" Emelie, that fayrer was to scene 

Than is the lilye on hys stalke grene." — 
" Uprose the sun and uprose Emelie." 



Dost thou thus love me, thou beautiful ? 
So beautiful, that by thy side I seem 
Like a great dusky cloud beside a star : 
Yet thou creep'st near its edges, and it rests 
On its lone path, the slow deep-hearted cloud — 
Then opes a rift and lets thee enter in ; 
And with thy beauty shining on its breast, 
Feels no mere its own blackness — thou art fair. 



218 



A SKETCH. 



Dost thou thus love me, thou all-beloved, 
In whose large store the very meanest coin 
Would out-buy my whole wealth? Yet here 

thou comest 
Like a kind heiress from her purple and down 
Uprising, who for pity cannot sleep, 
But goes forth to the stranger at her gate — 
The beggar 'd stranger at her beauteous gate — 
And clothes and feeds ; scarce blest till she has 

blest. 

Dost thou thus love me, thou pure of heart, 
Whose very looks are prayers ? What couldst 

thou see 
In this forsaken pool by the yew- wood's side, 
To sit clown at its bank, and dip thy hand, 
Saying, " It is so clear ! " — And lo, ere long 
Its blackness caught the shimmer of thy wings, 
Its slimes slid downward from thy stainless 

palm, 



A SKETCH. 219 

Its depths grew still that there thy form might 
rise. 

beautiful ! well-beloved ! rich 

In all that makes my need ! I lay me down 

V the shadow of thy love, and feel no pain. 

The cloud floats on, thee glittering on its breast ; 

The beggar wears thy purple as his own ; 

The noisome weaves, made calm, creep to thy 

feet, 
Rejoicing that they yet can image thee, 
And beyond thee, God's heaven, thick-sown 

with stars. 



THE UNKNOWN COUNTRY. 

To a German Air. 

" Where is the unknown country ? " 
I whisper'd sad and slow — 

" The strange and awful country 

To which I soon must go, must go, 
To which I soon must go ? " 

Out of the unknown country 
A voice sang soft and low. 
" pleasant is that country 

And sweet it is to go, to go, 
And sweet it is to go. 



THE UNKNOWN COUNTRY. 221 

' Along the shining country 

The peaceful rivers flow : 
And in that wondrous country 

The tree of life does grow, does grow, 

The tree of life does grow." 

Ah, then, into that country 

Of which I nothing know, 
The everlasting country, 

With willing heart I go, I go, 

With willing heart I go. 



A CHILD'S SMILE. 



" For I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always 
behold the face of my Father which is in heaven. ,J 



A child's smile — nothing more ; 

Quiet, and soft, and grave, and seldom seen ; 

Like summer lightning o'er, 

Leaving the little face again serene. 

I think, boy well-beloved, 

Thine angel, who did grieve to see bow far 

Thy childhood is removed 

From sports that dear to other children are, — 



a child's smile. 223 

On this pale cheek has thrown 

The brightness of his countenance, and made 

A beauty like his own — 

That while we see it, we are half afraid, 

And marvel, will it stay ? 

Or, long ere manhood, will that angel fair 

Departing, some sad day 

Steal the child- smile and leave the shadow care ? 

If ay, fear not. As is given 

Unto this child the father watching o'er, 

His angel up in heaven 

Beholds Our Father's face for evermore. 

And he will help him bear 

His burthen, as his father helps him now ; 

So may he come to wear 

That happy child -smile on an old man's brow. 



VIOLETS. 

SENT IN A LITTLE BOX. 

Let them lie, yes, let them lie, 
They '11 be dead to-morrow : 
Lift the lid up quietly 
As you 'd lift the mystery 
Of a shrouded sorrow. 

Let them lie, the fragrant things, 
Their sweet souls thus giving : 
Let no breezes' ambient wings, 
And no useless water-springs, 
Lure them into living. 



VIOLETS. 

They have lived — they live no more : 

Nothing can requite them 
For the gentle life they bore, 
And up-yielded in full store 
While it did delight them. 

Yet, poor flowers, not sad to die 

In the hand that slew ye, 
Did ye leave the open skv, 
And the winds that wander' d by, 
And the bees that knew ye. 

Giving up a small earth place, 

And a day of blooming, 
Here to lie in narrow space, 
Smiling in this sickly face, 

This dull air perfuming ? 

my pretty violets dead, 
Coffin* d from all gazes 5 

15 



226 VIOLETS. 

We will also smiling shed 
Out of our flowers withered, 
Perfume of sweet praises. 

And as ye, for this poor sake, 
Love with life are buying, 
So, I doubt not, One will make 
All our gather' d flowers to take 
Richer scent through dying. 



EDENLAND. 



For Music, 



You remember where in starlight 
We two wander'd hand in hand, 

While the night-flowers pour'd their perfume, 
And night airs the still earth fann'd ? — 

There I, walking yester even, 
Felt like a ghost in Edenland. 

I remember all yon told me, 

Looking up as we did stand, 

While my heart pour'd out its perfume, 

Like the night-flowers, in your hand ; 
15 * 



228 EDENLAOT>. 

And the path where we two wander'd 
Seem'd not like earth but Edenland. 

Now the stars shine paler, colder 

Night-flowers die without your hand ; 

Yet my spirit walks beside you 
Everywhere, unsought, unbann'd. 

And I wait till we shall wander 
Under the stars of Edenland, 



THE HOUSE OF CLAY. 

There was a house, a house of clay, 
Wherein the inmate sat all day, 

Merry and poor ; 
For Hope sat with her, heart to heart, 

Fond and kind, fond and kind, 
Vowing he never woidd depart, — 

Till all at once he changed his mind : 
" Sweetheart, good-bye ! " He slipp'd away 

And shut the door. 

But Love came past, and looking in 
With smile that pierced like sunbeam thin 

Through wall, roof, floor, 
Stood in the midst of that poor room, 

Grand and fair, grand and fair, 
Making a glory out of gloom : — 



230 THE HOUSE OF CLAY. 

Till at the window niock'd grim Care : 
Love sigh/d; "All lose, and nothing win?" — 
He shut the door. 

Then o'er the close-barr'd house of clay 
Kind clematis and woodbine gay 

Crept more and more ; 
And bees hummed merrily outside 

Loud and strong, loud and strong, 
The inner silentness to hide, 

The patient silence all day long ; 
Till evening touch'd with finger gray 

The bolted door. 

Most like, the next step passing by 
Will be the Angel's, whose calm eye 

Marks rich, marks poor : 
Who, pausing not at any gate, 

Stands and calls, stands and calls ; 
At which the inmate opens straight, — 

Whom, ere the crumbling clay-house falls, 
He takes in kind arms silently, 

And shuts the door. 



WINTER MOONLIGHT. 

Loud-voiced night, with the wild wind blowing 

Many a tune ; 
Stormy night, with white rain- clouds going 

Over the moon ; 
Mystic night, that each minute changes, — 
Now as blue as the mountain-ranges 

Far, far away ; 
Now as black as a heart where strange is 

Joy, night or day. 

Wondrous moonlight, unlike all moonlights 

Since I was born ; 
That on a hundred, bright as noonlights, 

Looks in slow scorn, — 



232 WINTER MOONLIGHT. 

Moonlights where the old vine-leaves quiver, 
Moonlights shining on vale and river, 

Where old paths lie ; 
Moonlights — Night, blot their like for ever 

Out of the sky ! 

Hail, new moonlight, fierce, wild, and stormy, 

Wintry and bold ! 
Hail, sharp wind, that can strengthen, warm me, 

If ne'er so cold ! 
Not chance- driven this deluge rages, 
One doth pour out and One assuages ; 

Under His hand 
Drifting, Noah-like, into the ages, 

I shall touch land. 



THE PLANTING. 

"I said to my little son, who was watching tearfully a tree he 
had planted — 6 Let it alone : it will grow while you are 
sleeping.' " 

Plant it safe and sure, my child, 

Then cease watching and cease weeping ; 
You have done your utmost part : 
Leave it with a quiet heart : 

It will grow while you are sleeping. 

si But, father/' says the child, 

With a troubled face up-creeping, 

" How can I but think and grieve 

When the fierce wind comes at eve 
Tearing it — and I lie sleeping ! 



234 THE PLANTING. 

" I have loved my young tree so ! 

In each, bud seen leaf and floweret. 
Water'd it each day with, prayers, 
Guarded it with many cares, 

Lest some canker should devour it. 

" good father/ 5 sobs the child, 

" If I come in summer's shining, 
And my pretty tree be dead, 
How the sun will scorch my head, 
How I shall sit lorn, repining ! 

" Rather let me evermore, 

An incessant watch thus keeping, 
Bear the cold, the storm, the frost, 
That my treasure be not lost — 

Ay, bear aught — but idle sleeping/' 

Sternly said the father then, 

" Who art thou, child, vainly grieving ? 



THE PLANTING. 235 

Canst thou send the balniy dews, 
Or the rich sap interfuse 

Through the dead trunk, inly living ? 

" Canst thou bid the heavens restrain 
Natural tempests for thy praying ? 

Canst thou bend one tender shoot, 

Urge the growth of one frail root, 
Keep one leaflet from decaying ? 

" If it live to bloom all fair, 

Will it praise thee for its blossom ? 

If it die, will any plaints 

Reach thee, as with kings and saints 
Drops it to the cold earth's bosom ? 

" Plant it — all thou canst ! — with prayers : 
It is safe 'neath His sky's folding 

Who the whole earth compasses, 

Whether we watch more or less, 

His wide eye all things beholding. 



236 THE PLANTING. 

" Should He need a goodly tree 
For the shelter of the nations, 

He will make it grow : if not, 

Never yet His love forgot 

Human love, and faith, and patience. 

" Leave thy treasure in His hand — 

Cease all watching and all weeping : 

Years hence, men its shade may crave, 

And its mighty branches wave 

Beautiful above thy sleeping." 

If his hope, tear-sown, that child 
Garner' d after joyful reaping, 

Know I not : yet unawares 

Gleams this truth through many cares, 

" It will grow while thou art sleeping.*' 



SITTING ON THE SHORE. 

The tide has ebb'd away : 
No more wild dashings 'gainst the adamant 

rocks, 
Nor swayings amidst seaweed false that mocks 

The hues of gardens gay : 

No laugh of little wavelets at their play : 
No lucid pools reflecting heaven's clear brow — 
Both storm and calm alike are ended now. 

The rocks sit gray and lone : 
The shifting sand is spread so smooth and dry, 
That not a tide might ever have swept by 

Stirring it with rude moan : 

Only some weedy fragments idly thrown 
To rot beneath the sky, tell what has been : 
But Desolation's self has grown serene. 



238 SITTING ON THE SHORE. 

Afar the mountains rise, 
And the broad estuary widens out, 
All sunshine ; wheeling round and round about 

Seaward, a white bird flies. 

A bird ? Nay, seems it rather in these eyes 
A spirit, o'er Eternity's dim sea 
Calling — " Come thou where all we glad souls 
be." 

life, silent shore, 
Where we sit patient ; great sea beyond, 
To which we turn with solemn hope and fond, 

But sorrowful no more : 

A little while, and then we too shall soar 
Like white- wing' d sea-birds into the Infinite 

Deep : 
Till then, Thou, Father — wilt our spirits keep. 



EUDOXIA. 

FIRST PICTURE. 

sweetest my sister, my sister that sits in the 

sun, 
Her lap full of jewels, and roses in showers on 

her hair ; 
Soft smiling and counting her riches up slow, 

one by one, 
Cool-brow'd, shaking dew from her garlands — 

those garlands so fair, 
Many gasp, clirnb, snatch, struggle, and die for 

— her every-day wear ! 
beauteous my sister, turn downwards those 

mild eyes of thine, 
Lest they stab with their smiling, and blister or 

scorch where they shine. 

Young sister who never yet sat for an hour in 
the cold, 



240 EUDOX1A. 

Whose cheek scarcely feels half the roses that 
throng to caress, 

Whose light hands hold loosely these jewels 
and silver and gold, 

Remember thou those in the world who for ever 
on press 

In perils and watchings, and hunger and naked- 
ness, 

While thou sitt'st content in this sunlight that 
round thee doth shine. 

Take heed ! these have long borne their burthen 
— now lift thou up thine. 

Be meek — as befits one whose cup to the brim 

is love-crown' d, 
While others in dry dust drop empty — What, 

what canst thou know 
Of the wild human tide that goes sweeping 

eternally round 
The isle where thou sitt'st pure and calm as a 

statue of snow, 



EUDOXIA. 241 

Around which good thoughts like kind angels 

continually go ? 
Be pitiful. Whose eyes once turn'd from the 

angels to shine 
Upon publicans, sinners ? sister, 't will not 

pollute thine. 

Who, even- eyed, looks on His children, the black 

and the fair, 
The loved and the unloved, the tempted, un- 

tempted — marks all, 
And metes — not as man metes ? If thou with 

weak, tender hand dare 
To take up His balances — say where His justice 

should fall, 
Far better be Magdalen dead at the gate of thy 

hall- 
Dead, sinning, and loving, and contrite, and 

pardon' d, to shine 
Midst the saints high in heaven, than thou, 

angel sister of mine ! 

16 



EUDOXIA. 

SECOND PICTURE. 

dearest my sister, my sister who sits by the 

hearth, 
With lids softly drooping, or lifted up saintly 

and calm, 
With household hands folded, or opened for 

help and for balm, 
And lips, ripe and dewy, or ready for innocent 

mirth, — 
Thy life rises upwards to heaven every day like 

a psalm 
Which the singer sings sleeping, and waked, 

would half wondering say — 
" I sang not. Nay, how could I sing thus ? — I 

only do pray." 



EUDOXIA. 243 

gentlest my sister, who walks in at every 

dark door 
Whether bolted or open, Tinheedful of welcome 

or frown ; 
But entering silent as sunlight, and there sitting 

down, 
Illumines the damp walls and shines pleasant 

shapes on the floor, 
And unlocks dim chambers where low lies sad 

Hope, without crown, 
Uplifts her from sackcloth and ashes and black 

mourning weeds, 
Re-crowns and re-clothes her. — Then, on to the 

next door that needs. 



blessed my sister, whose spirit so wholly 

dost live 

In loving, that even the word "loved," with its 

rapturous sound, 

16 * 



244 EUDOXIA. 

Rings faintly, like earth-tunes when angels are 
hymning around : 

Whose eyes say : " Less happy methinks to re- 
ceive than to give." — 

So whatsoever we give, may One give to thee 
without bound 

All best gifts —all dearest gifts. Whether His 
right hand do close 

Or open — He holds it for ever above thee ; — 
He knows ! 



EUDOXIA. 

THIRD PICTURE. 

silent iny sister, who stands by iny side at 

the shore, 
Back gazing with me on those waves which we 

mortals call years, 
That rose, grew, and threaten'd, and cliniax'd, 

and broke, and were o'er. 
While we still sit watching and watching, our 

cheeks free from tears — 
sister, with looks so familiar, yet strange, 

flitting by, 
Say, say, hast thou been to those dead years as 

faithful as I ? 

Have they cast at thy feet, also, jewels and 

whitening bones, 
Gold, silver, and wreck- wood, dank seaweed and 

treasures of cost ? 



246 EUDOXIA. 

Hast thou buried thy dead, sought thy jewels 
'midst shingle and stones, 

And learnt how the lost is the found, and the 
found is the lost ? 

Or stood with clear eyes upturned placid 'twixt 
sorrow and mirth, 

As asking deep, questions that cannot be an- 
swered on earth ? — 

I know not. Who knoweth ? Our own souls 

we scarcely do know, 
And none knows his brother's. Who judges, 

contemns, or bewails, 
Or mocketh, or praiseth ? In this world's 

strange vanishing show, 
The one truth is loving. O sister, the dark 

cloud that veils 
All life, lets this rift through to glorify future 

and past. 
"Love ever — love only — love faithfully— love 

to the last." 



BENEDETTA MINELLI. 

I. 

THE NOVICE. 

It is near morning. Ere the next night fall 
I shall be made the bride of heaven. Then 

home 
To my still marriage chamber I shall come, 
And spouseless, childless, watch the slow years 
crawl. 

These lips will never meet a softer touch 
Than the stone crucifix I kiss ; no child 
Will clasp this neck. Ah, virgin-mother mild, 

Thy painted bliss will mock me overmuch. 

This is the last time I shall twist the hair 

My mother's hand wreath'd, till in dust she 
lay: 



248 BENEDETTA MINELLI. 

The name, her name, given on my baptism- 
day, 
This is the last time I shall ever bear. 

weary world, heavy life, farewell ! 

Like a tired child that creeps into the dark 
To sob itself asleep, where none will mark,- — 

So creep I to my silent convent cell. 

Friends, lovers whom I loved not, kindly hearts 
Who grieve that I shordd enter this still door, 
. Grieve not. Closing behind me evermore, 
Me from all anguish, as all joy, it parts. 

Love, whom alone I loved ; who stand' st far off, 
Lifting compassionate eyes that could not 

save, 
Remember, this my spirit's quiet grave 

Hides me from worldly pity, worldly scoff. 

'T was less thy hand than Heaven's which came 
between, 
And dash'd my cup down. See, I shed no 
tears : 



BEXEDETTA MIXELLI. 249 

And if I tliiiik at all of vanish' d years, 
'Tis but to bless thee, dear, for what has been. 

My soul continually does cry to thee, 

In the night watches ghost-like stealing out 
From its flesh tomb, and hovering thee about ; 

So live that I in heaven thy face may see ! 

Live, noble heart, of whom this heart of mine 
Was half unworthy. Build up actions great, 
That I down looking from the crystal gate 

Smile o'er our dead hopes urn'd in such a shrine. 

Live, keeping aye thy spirit undefiled, 

That, when we stand before our Master's feet, 
I with an angel's love may crown complete 

The woman's faith, the worship of the child. 

Dawn, solemn bridal morn, ope, bridal door, 
I enter. My vow'd soul may Heaven now 

take ; 
My heart its virgin spousal for thy sake, 

love, keeps sacred thus for evermore. 



BENEDETTA MINELLL 

II. 

THE SISTER OE MERCY. 

Is it then so ? — Good friends, who sit and sigh 
While I He smiling, are my life's sands run ? 
Will my next, matins hymn/d beyond the sun, 

Mingle with those of saints and martyrs high ? 

Shall I with these, my grey hairs turned to gold, 
My aged limbs new clad in garments white, 
Stand all transfigured in the angels' sight, 

Singing triumphantly that moan of old. 



BENEDETTA MINELLI. 251 

Thy will be done. It was done. my God, 
Thou know'st, when over griefs tempestuous 

sea 
My broken- winged soul fled home to Thee, 

I writhed, but never murmur' d at Thy rod. 

It fell upon me, stern at first, then soft 

As parents' kisses, till the wound was heal'd, 
And I went forth a labourer in Thy field : — 

They best can bind who have been bruised oft. 

And Thou wert pitiful. I came heart-sore, 
And drank Thy cup because earth's cups ran 

dry: 
Thou slew'stme not for that impiety, 
But madest the draught so sweet, I thirst no 
more. 

I came for silence, heavy rest, or death : 

Thou gavest instead life, peace, and holy toil : 
My sighing lips from sorrow didst assoil, 

And fill with righteous thankfulness each breath. 



252 BENEDETTA MINELLI. 

Therefore I praise Thee that Thou clos'dst 
Thine ears 
Unto my misery : didst Thy will, not mine : 
That to this length of days Thy hand divine, 

My feet from falling kept, mine eyes from tears. 

Sisters, draw near. Hear my last words serene : 
When I was young I walk'd in mine own 

ways, 
Worshipped — not God : sought not alone His 
praise, 
So He cut down my gourd while it was green. 

And then He o'er me threw His holy shade, 
That though no other mortal plants might 

grow, 
Mocking the beauty that was long laid low, 

I dwelt in peace, and His commands obey'd. 

I thank Him for all joy and for all pain : 

For healed pangs, for years of calm content : 



BENEDETTA MIXELL1. 253 

For blessedness of sj)ending and being spent 
In His high service where all loss is gain. 

I bless Him for my life and for my death; 
But niost, that in my death my life is crowned, 
Since I see there, with angels gathering round, 

My angel. Ay, love, thou hast kept thy faith. — 

I mine. The golden portals will not close 
Like those of earth, between us. Reach thy 

hand ! 
Xo miserere, sisters. Chant out grand 

Te Beam laudamus. Now — 't is all repose. 



A DREAM OF DEATH. 



" Where shall we sail to-day?" — Thus said, 

methought, 
A voice, that only could be heard in dreams : 
And on we glided without mast or oar, 
A wondrous boat upon a wondrous sea. 

Sudden, the shore curved inward to a bay, 
Broad, calnij with gorgeous sea-weeds waving 

slow 
Beneath the water, like rich thoughts that stir 
In the mysterious deep of poets' hearts. 



A DREAM OF DEATH. 255 

So still, so fair, so rosy in the dawn 

Lay that bright bay : yet something seeni'd to 

breathe, 
Or in the air, or from the whispering waves, 
Or from that roice, as near as one's own soul, 

c ' There was a wreck last night" A wreck ? then 

where 
The ship, the crew ? — The all- entombing sea 
On which is writ nor name nor chronicle 
Laid itself o'er them with smooth crystal smile. 

" Yet was the wreck last 'night" And gazing down 
Deep down below the surface, we were ware 
Of ghastly faces with their open eyes 
Uplooking to the dawn they could not see. 

One moved with moving sea- weeds : one lay 

prone, 
The tinted fishes gliding o'er his breast ; 
One, caught by floating hair, rock'd quietly 
Upon his reedy cradle, like a child. 



256 A DREAM OF DEATH. 

"The wreck has been" — said the melodious voice, 
" Yet all is peace. The dead, that, while we slept, 
Struggled for life, now sleep and fear no storms : 
O'er them let us not weep when heaven smiles." 

So we sail'd on above the diamond sands, 
Bright sea-flowers, and white faces stony calm, 
Till the waves bore us to the open main, 
And the great sun arose upon the world. 



A DREAM OF RESURRECTION. 

So heavenly beautiful it lay, 
It was less like a human corse 
Than that fair shape in which perforce 

A lost hope clothes itself alway. 

The dream showed very plain : the bed 

Where that known unknown face reposed - 
A woman's face with eyelids closed, 

A something precious that was dead ; 

A something, lost on this side life, 

By which the mourner came and stood, 
And laid down, ne'er to be indued, 

All flaunting robes of earthly strife ; 

Shred off, like votive locks of hair, 

Youth's ornaments of pride and strength, 

And cast them in their golden length 

The silence of that bier to share. 
17 



258 A DREAM OF RESURRECTION. 

JSTo tears fell — buu with gazings long 
Lorn memory tried to print that face 
On the heart's ever- vacant place, 

With a sun-finger, sharp and strong. — 

Then kisses, dropping without sound, 

And solemn arms wound round the dead, 
And lifting from the natural bed 

Into the coffin's strange new bound. 

Yet still no farewell, or belief 

In death ; no more than one believes 
In some dread truth that sudden weaves 

The whole world in a shroud of grief. 

And still unanswered kisses ; still 
Warm clingings to the image cold 
With an incredulous faith's close fold, 

Creative in its fierce " I will" 



A DREAM OF RESURRECTION. 259 

Hush — hush ! the marble eyelids move, 
The kiss'd lips quiver into breath : 
Avaunt, thou mockery of Death ! 

Avaunt ! — we are conquerors, I and Love. 

Corpse of dead Hope, awake, arise, 

A living Hope that only slept 

Until the tears thus overwept 
Had wash'd the blindness from our eyes. 

Come back into the upper day : 

Pluck off these cerements. Patient shroud, 
We '11 wrap thee as a garment proud 

Round the fair shape we thought was clay. 

Clasp, arms ; cling, soul ; eyes, drink anew 

The beauty that returns with breath : 

Faith, that out-loved this trance-like death, 

May see this resurrection too. 
17 * 



ON THE CLIFF-TOP. 



Face upward to tlie sky 

Quiet I lie : 

Quiet as if the finger of (rod's will 

Had bade this human mechanism " be still ! " 

And sent the intangible essence, this strange I, 

All wondering forth to His eternity. 

Below, the sea's sound, faint 

As dying saint 

Telling of gone-by sorrows long at rest : 

Above, the fearless sea-gull's shimmering breast 

Painted a moment on the dark blue skies — 

A hovering joy, that while I watch it flies. 



OX THE CLIFF-TOP. 261 

Alike unheeded now 

Old griefs, and thou, 

Quick- winged Joy, that like a bird at play 

Pleasest thyself to visit nie to-day : 

On the cliff- top, earth dim and heaven clear, 

My soul lies calmly, above hope — or fear. 

But not — (do Thou forbid 

Whose stainless lid 

Wept tears at Lazarus' grave, and looking down 

Afar off, upon Solyma's doom/d town — ) 

Ah, not above love — human yet divine — 

Which, Thee seen first, in Thee sees all of Thine ! 

Is f t sunset ? The keen breeze 

Blows from the seas : 

And at my side a pleasant vision stands 

With her brown eyes and kind extended hands. 

Dear, we '11 go down together and full fain 

From the cliff-top to the busy world again. 



AN EVENING GUEST. 



If in the silence of tMs lonely eve, 

With the street lamp pale flickering on the 
wall. 
An angel were to whisper me — " Believe — 
It shall be given thee. Call ! " — whom should 
I call ? 

And then I were to see thee gliding in, 

Clad in known garments, that with empty fold 

Lie in my keeping, and my fingers, thin 
As thine were once, to feel in thy safe hold : 



AX EVENING GUEST. 263 

I should fall weeping on thy neck and say, 
" I have so suffer'd since — since " — But my 
tears 
Would stop, remembering how thou count' st thy 
day, 
A day that is with Grod a thousand years. 

Then what are these sad days, months, years of 
mine, 

To thine eternity of full delight ? 
What my whole life, when myriad lives divine 

May wait, each leading to a higher height ? 

I lose myself — I faint. Beloved, best, 
Let me still dream, thy dear humanity 

Sits with me here, my head upon thy breast, 
And then I will go back to heaven with thee. 



AFTER SUNSET. 



Rest — rest — four little letters, one short word, 
Enfolding an infinitude of bliss — 
Rest is upon the earth. The heavy clouds 
Hang poised in silent ether, motionless, 
Seeking nor sun nor breeze. No restless star 
Thrills the sky's gray- robed breast with pulsing 

rays, 
The night's heart has throbVd out. 

No grass blade stirs, 
No downy- winged moth comes flittering by 
Caught by the light — Thank Grod, there is no 

light, 
No open-eyed, loud-voiced, quick-motion'd light, 
Nothing but gloom and rest. 



AFTER SUNSET. 265 

A row of trees 
Along the hill horizon, westward, stands 
All black and still, as if it were a rank 
Of fallen angels, melancholy met 
Before the amber gate of Paradise — 
The bright shut gate, whose everlasting smile 
Deadens despair to calm. 

0, better far, 
Better than bliss is rest ! If suddenly 
Those burnish'd doors of molten gold, steel- 

barr'd, 
Which the sun closed behind him as he went 
Into his bridal chamber — were to burst 
Asunder with a clang, and in a breath 
God's mysteries were reveal'd — His kingdom 

came — 
The multitudes of heavenly messengers 
Hastening throughout all space — the thunder 

quire 



266 AFTER SUNSET. 

Of praise — the obedient lightnings' lambent 

gleam 
Around the unseen Throne — should I not sink, 
Crush/ d by the weight of such beatitudes, 
Crying, " Rest, only rest, thou merciful God ! 
Hide me within the hollow of Thy hand 
In some dark corner of the universe, 
Thy bright, full, busy universe, that blinds, 
Deafens, and tortures— Give me only rest ! " 

for a soul- sleep, long and deep and still ! 
To He down quiet after the weary day, 
Dropping all pleasant flowers from the numb'd 

hands, 
Bidding good-night to all companions dear, 
Drawing the curtains on this darkened world, 
Closing the eyes, and with a patient sigh 
Murmuring, " Our Father/' — fall on sleep, till 

dawn ! 



THE GARDEX-CHAIR. 



TWO PORTRAITS. 



A pleasaxt picture, full of meanings deep. 
Old age, calm sitting in the July sun, 
On withered hands half-leaning — feeble hands, 
That after their life-labours, light or hard, 
Their girlish broideries, their marriage-ring'd 
Domestic duties, their sweet cradle cares, 
Have dropped into the quiet-folded ease 
Of fourscore years. How peacefully the eyes 
Face us ! Contented, unregretful eyes, 
That carry in them the whole tale of life 
With its one moral — " Thus all was — thus best." 
Eyes now so near unto their closing mild, 
They seem to pierce direct through all that maze, 
As eyes immortal do. 



268 THE GARDEN-CHAIR. 

Here — Youth. She stands 
Under the roses, with elastic foot 
Poised to step forward ; eager- eyed, yet grave 
Beneath the mystery of the unknown To-come, 
Though longing for its coming. Firm prepared 
(So say the lifted head, and close, sweet mouth) 
For any future : though the dreamy hope, 
Throned on her girlish forehead, whispers fond, 
" Surely they err who say that life is hard ; 
Surely it shall not be with me as these." 

Grod knows : He only. And so best, dear child, 
Thou woman- statured, sixteen -year-old child, 
Meet bravely the impenetrable Dark 
Under thy roses. Bud and blossom thou 
Fearless as they — if thou art planted safe, 
Whether for gathering or for withering, safe 
In the King's garden. 



AN OLD IDEA. 



Stream of my life, dull, placid river, flow ! 
I have no fear of the engulphing seas : 
Neither I look before me nor behind, 
But lying mute with wave-dipp'd hand, float on. 

It was not always so. My brethren, see 

This oar-stain'd, trembling palm. It keeps the 

sign 
Of youth's rnad wrestling with the waves that 

drift 
Immutably, eternally along. 



270 AN OLD IDEA. 

I would have had them flow through fields and 

flowers, 
Giving and taking freshness, perfume, joy ; 
It winds through — here. Be silent, my soul ! 
— The finger of God's wisdom drew its line. 

So I lean back and look up to the stars, 
And count the ripples circling to the shore. 
And watch the solemn river rolling on 
Until it widen to the open seas. 



PABABLES. 



" Hold every mortal joy 
With, a loose hand." 



We clutch our joys as children do their flowers; 
We look at them, but scarce believe them ours, 
Till our hot palms have smirch'd their colours 

rare, 
And crush/ d their dewy beauty unaware. 

But the wise Gardener, whose they were, comes 

At hours when we expect not, and with eye 
Mournful yet sweet, compassionate though stern, 
Takes them. 



272 



PARABLES. 



Then in a moment we discern, 
By loss, what was possession, and, half wild 
With misery, cry out like angry child : 
" cruel ! thus to snatch my posy fine ! " 
He answers tenderly, " Not thine, but mine," 
And points to those stain'd fingers which do 

prove 
Our fatal cherishing, our dangerous love ; 
At which we, chidden, a pale silence keep ; 
Yet evermore must weep, and weep, and weep. 

So on through gloomy ways and thorny brakes, 
Quiet and slow, our shrinking feet he takes, 
Led by the soiled hand, which, laved in tears, 
More and more clean beneath his sight appears. 
At length the heavy eyes with patience shine — 
" I am content. Thou took'st but what was 
thine." 

And then he us his beauteous garden shows, 
Where bountiful the rose of Sharon grows : 



PARABLES. 273 

Where in the breezes opening spice-buds swell, 
And the pomegranates yield a pleasant smell : 
While to and fro peace -sandaled angels move 
In the pure air that they — not we — call Love : 
An air so rare and fine our grosser breath 
Cannot inhale till purified by death. 
And thus we, struck with longing joy, adore, 
And, satisfied, wait mute without the door, 
Until the gracious Gardener rnaketh sign, 
" Enter in peace. All this is mine — and thine." 



is 



LETTICE. 

I said to Lettice, our sister Lettice, 

While droop'd and glistened lier eyelash, 
brown, 
st Your man ? s a poor man, a cold and dour man, 

There's many a better about our town." — 
She smiled securely — " He loves me purely : 

A true heart ? s safe, both, in smile or frown ; 
And nothing harms me while his love warms me, 

Whether the world go up or down." 

" He comes of strangers, and they are rangers, 
And ill to trust, girl, when out of sight : 

Fremd folk may blame ye, and e'en defame ye — 
A gown oft handled looks seldom white." 



LETTICE. 275 

She raised serenely her eyelids queenly, — 
" My innocence is niy whitest gown ; 

Xo harsh tongue grieyes rne while he belieyes nie, 
Whether the world go up or down." 

" Your man ? s a frail man, was ne'er a hale nian, 

And sickness knocketh at eyery door, 
And death conies making bold hearts cower, 
breaking — " 

Our Lettice trembled ; — but once, no more. 
" If death should enter, smite to the centre 

Our poor home palace, all crumbling down, 
He cannot fright us, nor disunite us, 

Life bears Loye's cross, death brings Loye's 



IS* 



A SPIRIT PRESENT. 

Ir ? coming from that unknown sphere 

Where I believe thou art — 
The world unseen which girds our world 

So close, yet so apart, — 
Thy soul's soft call unto my soul 

Electrical could reach, 
And mortal and immortal blend 

In one familiar speech, — 

What wouldst thou say to me ? wouldst ask 

What, since did me befall ? 
Or close this chasm of cruel years 

Between us — knowing all ? 
Wouldst love me — thy pure eyes seeing that 

God only saw beside ? 
Oh, love me ! 'T was so hard to live, 

So easy to have died. 



A SPIRIT PRESENT. 277 

If while this dizzy whirl of life 

A moment pausing stay'd, 
I face to face with thee could stand, 

I would not be afraid : 
Not though from heaven to heaven thy feet 

In glad ascent have trod, 
While mine took through earth's miry ways 

Their solitary road. 

We could not lose each other. World 

On world piled ever higher 
Would part like bank'd clouds, lightning- 
cleft 

By our two souls' desire. 
Life ne'er divided us ; death tried, 

But could not ; love's voice fine 
Call'd luring through the dark — then ceased, 

And I am wholly thine. 



A WINTER WALK. 

We never had believed, I wis, 

At primrose time when west winds stole 
Like thoughts of youth across the soul, 

In such an alter 'd time as this, 

When if one little flower did peep 

Up through the brown and sullen grass, 
We should just look on it, and pass 

As if we saw it in our sleep. 

Feeling as sure as that this ray 

Which cottage children call the sun, 
Colours the pale clouds one by one, — 

Our touch would make it drop to clay. 

We never could have look'd, in prime 

Of April, or when July trees 

Shook full- leaved in the evening breeze, 
Upon the face of this pale time, 



A WINTER WALK. 279 

Still, soft, familiar ; shining bleak 
On naked branches, sodden ground, 
Yet shining — as if one had found 

A smile upon a dead friend's cheek, 

Or old friend, lost for years, had strange 
In alter'd mien come sudden back, 
Confronting us with our great lack — 

Till loss seem'd far less sad than change. 

Yet though, alas ! Hope did not see 

This winter skeleton through full leaves, 
Out of all bareness Faith perceives 

Possible life in field and tree. 

In bough and trunk the sap will move, 

And the mould break o'er springing flowers ; 
Nature revives with all her powers, 

But only nature ; — never love. 

So, listlessly with linked hands 

Both Faith and Hope glide soft away ; 
While, in long shadows cool and gray, 

The sun sets o'er the barren lands. 



" WILL SAIL TO-MORROW." 

The good ship lies in the crowded dock, 

Fair as a statue, firm as a rock : 

Her tall masts piercing the still blue air 

Her funnel glittering white and bare, 

Whence the long soft line of vapoury smoke 

Betwixt sky and sea like a vision broke, 

Or slowly o'er the horizon curl'd, 

Like a lost hope fled to the other world : 

She sails to-morrow — 

Sails to-morrow. 

Out steps the captain, busy and grave, 
With his sailor's footfall, quick and brave, 



"will sail to-morrow." 281 

His hundred thoughts and his thousand cares, 
And his steady eye that all things dares : 
Though a little smile o'er the kind face dawns 
On the loving brute that leaps and fawns, 
And a little shadow comes and goes, 
As if heart or fancy fled — where, who knows ? 

He sails to-morrow — 

Sails to-morrow. 



To-morrow the serried line of ships 
Will quick close after her as she slips 
Into the unknown deep once more : 
To-morrow, to-morrow, some on shore 
With straining eyes shall desperate yearn — 
" This is not parting ? return — return ! " 
Peace, wild- wrung hands ! hush; sobbing breath ! 
Love keepeth its own through life and death ; 

Though she sails to-morrow — 

Sails to-morrow. 



282 " WILL SAIL TO-MORROW." 

Sail, stately ship ; down Southampton water 
Gliding fair as old Nereus' daughter : 
Christian ship, that for burthen bears 
Christians, speeded by Christian prayers ; 
All kind angels, follow her track ! 
Pitiful God, bring the good ship back ! 
All the souls in her for ever keep 
Thine, living or dying, awake or asleep : 

Then sail to-morrow ! 

Ship, sail to-morrow! 



AT EVEN-TIDE. 

C. N.— Died, April 1857. 

"What spirit is it that doth, pervade 
The silence of this empty room ? 

And as I lift my eyes, what shade 
Glides off and vanishes hi gloom ? 

I could believe this moment gone, 

A known form fill'd that vacant chair, 

That those kind eyes upon me shone 
I never shall see anywhere ! 

The living are so far away : 

But thou — thou seemest strangely near ; 
Knowest all my silent heart would say, 

Its peace, its pain, its hope, its fear. 

And from thy calm supernal height, 
And wondrous wisdom newlv won, 



284 AT EVEN-TIDE. 

Sniilest on all our poor delight, 
And petty woe beneath the sun. 

From all this coil thou hast slipp'd away, 

As softly as a cloud departs 
Along the hill- side purple gray — 

Into the heaven of patient hearts. 

Nothing here suffer'd, nothing miss'd, 

Will ever stir from its repose 
The death-smile on her lips unkiss'd, 

Who all things loves and all things knows. 

And I, who, ignorant and weak, 
Of love so helpless — quick to pain, 

With restless longing ever seek 
The unattainable in vain, 

Find it strange comfort thus to sit, 
While the loud world unheeded rolls, 

And clasp, ere yet the fancy flit, 

A friend's hand from the land of souls. 



A DEAD SEA-GULL. 

Near Liverpool. 

Lack-lustre eye, and idle wing, 
And smirched breast that skims no more, 
White as the foam itself, the wave — 
Hast thou not even a grave 

Upon the dreary shore, 
Forlorn, forsaken thing ? 

Thou whom the deep seas could not drown, 
Nor all the elements affright, 
Flashing like thought across the main, 
Mocking the hurricane, 
Screaming with shrill delight 
When the great ship went down. 



280 A DEAD SEA-GULL. 

Thee not thy beauty saved, nor mirth, 
Nor daring, nor thy humble lot, 
One among thousands — in quick haste 
Fate clutched thee as she past ; 
Dead — how, it matters not : 
Corrupting, earth to earth. 

And not a league from where it lies 
Lie bodies once as free from stain, 
And hearts as gay, as this sea bird's, 
Whom all the preachers' words 
Will ne'er make white again, 
Or from the dead to rise. 

Rot, pretty bird, in harmless clay :— - 
We sing too much poetic woes ; 
Let us be doing while we can : 
Blessed the Christian man 
Who on life's shore seeks those 
Dying of soul- decay. 



LOOKING EAST. 

In January, 1858. 

Little white clouds, why are you flying 

Over the sky so blue and cold ? 
Fair faint hopes, why are you lying 

Over my heart like a white cloud's fold ? 

Slender green leaves, why are you peeping 
Out of the ground where the snow yet lies ? 

Toying west wind, why are you creeping 
Like a child's breath across my eyes ? 

Hope and terror by turns consuming, 
Lover and friend put far from me, — 

What should I do with the bright spring, coming 
Like an angel over the sea ? 



288 LOOKING EAST. 

Over the cruel sea that parted 

Me from mine own, and rolls between ; — 
Out of the woeful east, whence darted 

Heaven's full quiver of vengeance keen. 

Day teaches day, night whispers morning — 

" Hundreds are weeping their dead, while thou 
Weeping thy living — Rise, be adorning 

Thy brows, unwidow'd, with smiles." — But 
how ? 
Oh, had he married me ! — unto anguish 

Hardship, sickness, peril and pain ; 
That on my breast his head might languish 

In lonely jungle or scorching plain ; 

Oh, had we stood on some rampart gory, 
Till he — ere Horror behind us trod — 

Kiss'd me, and kill'd me — so, with his glory, 
My soul went happy and pure to God ! 

]Nay, nay, heaven pardon me ! me, sick-hearted, 
Living this long, long life-in-death : 



LOOKING EAST. 289 

Many there are far wider parted 

Who under one roof- tree breathe one breath. 

But we that loved — whom one word half- broken 
Had drawn together close soul to soul 

As lip to lip — and it was not spoken, 
Nor may be, while the world's ages roll. 

I sit me down with my tears all frozen : 
I drink my cup, be it gall or wine : 

For I know, if he lives, I am his chosen — 
I know, if he dies, that he is mine. 

If love in its silence be greater, stronger 
Than million promises, sighs, or tears — 

I will wait upon Him a little longer 
Who holdeth the balance of our years. 

Little white clouds like angels flying, 

Bring the spring with you across the sea — 

Loving or losing, living or dying, 

Lord, remember, remember me ! 
19 



OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY. 



A little bird flew my window by, 
Twixt the level street and the level skv, 
The level rows of houses tall, 
The long low sun on the level wall ; 
And all that the little bird did say 
Was " Over the hills and far away." 

A little bird sang behind my chair, 
From the level line of corn-fields fair, 
The smooth green hedge-row's level bound 
Not a furlong off — the horizon's bound, 
And the level lawn where the sun all day 
Burns : — " Over the hills and far away." 



OVER, THE HILLS A2sD FAR AWAY. 291 

A little bird sings above my bed, 

And I know if I could but lift my bead 

I would see the sun set, round and grand, 

Upon level sea and level sand, 

While beyond the misty distance grey 

Is " Over the hills and far away/' 

I think that a little bird will sing 

Over a grassy mound, next spring 

Where something that once was me, ye '11 leave 

In the level sunshine, morn and eve : 

But I shall be gone, past night, past day, 

Over the hills and far away. 



TOO LATE. 

" Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu." 

Could ye come back to ine, Douglas, Douglas, 

In the old likeness that I knew, 
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, 
I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do ; — 

Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 

to call back the days that are not ! 

My eyes were blinded, your words were few : 
Do you know the truth now up in heaven, 

Douglas, Douglas, tender and true ? 



TOO LATE 293 

I never was worthy of you, Douglas ; 

JSTot half worthy the like of you : 
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows — 

I love you, Douglas, tender and true. 

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas, 
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew ; 

As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas, 
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true. 



LOST IN THE MIST. 



The thin white snow-streaks pencilling 

That mountain's shoulder grey, 
While in the west the pale green sky 

Smiled back the dawning day, 
Till from the misty east the sun 

Was of a sudden born, 
Like a new soul in Paradise — 

How long it seems since morn ! 

One little hour, round red sun. 

And thou and I shall come 
Unto the golden gate of rest, 

The open door of home : 



lost ix the mist. 295 



One little hour, weary sun, 
Delay the threaten' d eve, 

Till my tired feet that pleasant door 
Enter and never leave. 



Ye rooks that fly in slender file 

Into the thickening gloom, 
Ye '11 scarce have reach' d your grim grey tower 

Ere I have reach/ d my home ; 
Plover, that thrills the solitude 

With such an eerie cry, 
Seek you your nest ere night-fall comes, 

As my heart's nest seek I. 



light, light heart and heavy feet, 

Patience a little while ! 
Keep the warm love- light in these eyes 

And on these lips the smile : 



296 LOST IN THE MIST. 

Outspeed the mist, the gathering mist 
That follows o'er the moor ! — 

The darker grows the world without 
The brighter seems that door. 

door, so close yet so far off ! 
mist, that nears and nears ! 

What, shall I faint in sight of home ? 
Blinded — but not with tears — 

'T is but the mist, the cruel mist, 
Which chills this heart of mine : 

These eyes, too weak to see that light- 
It has not ceased to shine. 

A little further, further yet : 

The white mist crawls and crawls ; 

It hems me round, it shuts me in 
Its great sepulchral walls : 

No earth — no sky — no path— no light- 
A silence like the tomb : 



LOST IN THE MIST. 297 

Oh me, it is too soon to die — 
And I was going home ! 

A little further, further yet : 

My limbs are young, — my heart — 

heart, it is not only life 
That feels it hard to part : 

Poor lips, slow freezing into calm, 

Nunib'd hands, that helpless fall ; 
And, a mile off, warm lips, fond hands, 

Waiting to welcome all ! 

1 see the pictures in the room, 
The figures moving round, 

The very flicker of the fire 

Upon the patterned ground : 
that I were the shepherd- dog 

That guards their happy door ! 
Or even the silly household cat 

That basks upon the floor ! 



298 LOST m THE MIST. 

that I sat one minute's space 

Where I have sat so long ! 
that I heard one little word, 

Sweeter than angel's song ! 
A pause — and then the table fills, 

The harmless mirth brims o'er ; 
While I — oh can it be Grod's will ? — 

I die, outside the door. 

My body fails — my desperate soul 

Struggles before it go : 
The bleak air 's full of voices wild, 

But not the voice I know ; 
Dim shapes come wandering through the dark, 

With mocking, curious stares ; 
Faces long strange peer glimmering by — 

But not one face of theirs. 

Lost, lost, and such a little way 
From that dear sheltering door ! 



LOST IN THE MIST. 299 

Lost, lost, out of the loving arms 

Left empty evermore ! 
His will be done. gate of heaven, 

Fairer than earthly door, 
Receive me ! Everlasting arms, 

Enfold me evermore ! 



* * * 



And so, farewell * * * * * * * 

What is this touch 

Upon my closing eyes ? 
My name too, that I thought to hear 

Next time in Paradise ? 
Warm arms — close lips — Oh saved, saved, saved ! 

Across the deathly moor 
Sought, found — and yonder through the night 

Shineth the blessed door. 



SEMPER FIDELIS. 

" Mine own familiar friend, in whom I trusted. " 

Think you, had we two lost fealty, something 

would not, as I sit 
With this book upon my lap here, come and 

overshadow it ? 
Hide with spectral mists the pages, under each 

familiar leaf 
Lurk, and clutch my hand that turns it with the 

icy clutch of grief? 

Think you, were we twain divided, not by dis- 
tance, time, or aught 

That the world calls separation, but we smile at, 
better taught, 



SEMPER FIDELIS. 301 

That I should not feel the dropping of each link 

you did untwine 
Clear as if you sat before me with your true eyes 

fixed on mine ? 



That I should not, did you crumble as the other 

false friends do 
To the dust of broken idols, know it without 

sight of you, 
By some shadow darkening daylight in the fickle 

skies of spring, 
By foul fears from household corners crawling 

over everything ? 

If that awful gulf were opening which makes 

two, however near, 
Parted more than we were parted, dwelt we in 

each hemisphere, — 



302 SEMPER FIDELIS. 

Could I sit here, smiling quiet on this book 

within my hand, 
And while earth was cloven beneath me, feel no 

shock nor understand ? 



No, you cannot, could not alter. JSTo, my faith 

builds safe on yours, 
Rock-like ; though the winds and waves howl, 

its foundation still endures : 
By a man's will — u See, I hold thee : mine 

thou art, and mine shalt be ; " 
By a woman's patience — " Sooner doubt I my 

own soul than thee." 



So, Heaven mend us ! we '11 together once again 

take counsel sweet ; 
Though this hand of mine. drops empty, that 

blank wall my blank eyes meet : 



SEMPER FIDELIS. 303 

Life may flow on ; men be faithless, — ay forsooth 

and women too ! 
One is true ; and as He liyeth, I believe in truth 

- — and you. 



ONE SUMMER MORNING. 

It is but a little while ago : 
The elm-leaves have scarcely begun to drop away ; 
The sunbeams strike the elm- trunk just where 
they struck that day — 

Yet all seems to have happen' d long ago. 

And the year rolleth round, slow, slow : 
Autumn will fade to winter and winter melt in 

spring, 
New life return again to every living thing. 

Soon, this will have happen'd long ago. 

The bonnie wee flowers will blow ; 
The trees will re-clothe themselves, the birds sing 

out amain, — 
But never, never, never will the world look again 

As it looked before this happen'd — long ago ! 



MY LOYE AN^IE. 



Soft of voice and light of hand 
As the fairest in the land ; — 
Who can rightly understand 
My love Annie ? 

Simple in her thoughts and ways, 
True in every word she says, — 
Who shall even dare to praise 
My love Annie ? 

Midst a naughty world and rude 
^Never in ungentle mood ; 
Never tired of being good — 
My love Annie. 

20 



306 MY LOVE ANNIE. 

Hundreds of the wise and great 
Might overlook her meek estate ; 
But on her good angels wait, 
My love Annie. 

Many or few the loves that may 
Shine upon her silent way, — 
God will love her night and day, 
My love Annie. 



SUMMER GONE. 



Small wren, mute pecking at the last red plum, 
Or twittering idly at the yellowing boughs, 
Fruit-emptied, over thy forsaken house, — 

Birdie, that seems to come 

Telling, we too have spent out little store, 

Our summer 's o'er : 

Poor robin, driven in by rain-storms wild 
To he submissive under household hands 
With beating heart that no love under- 
stands, 
And scared eye, like a child 
Who only knows that he is all alone 

And summer ? s gone : 

20 * 



308 SUMMER GONE. 

Pale leaves, sent flying wide, a frighten'd flock, 
On which the wolfish wind bursts out, and 

tears 
Those tender forms that lived in summer 
airs, 
Till, taken at this shock, 
They, like weak hearts when sudden grief sweeps 

by, 

Whirl, drop, and die : — 

All these things, earthy, of the earth — do tell 
This earth's perpetual story ; we belong 
Unto another country, and our song 

Shall be no mortal knell ; 

Though all the year's tale, as our years run fast, 

Mourns, " summer's past." 

love immortal, perpetual youth, 

Whether in budding nooks it sits and sings 
As hundred poets in a hundred springs, 

Or slaking passion's drouth 



SUMMER GONE. 309 

In wine-press of affliction, ever goes 
Heavenward, through woes : 

youth immortal — O undying love ! 

With these by winter fireside we '11 sit down 
Wearing our snows of honour like a crown ; 

And sing as in a grove, 

Where the full nests ring out, with happy cheer, 

" Summer is here/' 

Roll round, strange years ; swift seasons, come 
and go ; 

Ye leave upon us only an outward sign ; 

Ye cannot touch the inward and divine, 
While Grod alone does know ; 
There seal'd till summers, winters, all shall cease 
In His deep peace. 

Therefore uprouse ye winds and howl your will ; 
Beat, beat, ye sobbing rains, on pane and 
door ; 



310 SUMMER GONE. 

Enter, slow- footed age, and thou, obscure 
Grand Angel — not of ill : 
Healer of every wound, whene'er thou come, 
Glad, we '11 go home. 



THE VOICE CALLING. 



In the hush of April weather, 
With the bees in budding heather, 
And the white clouds floating, floating, and the 
sunshine falling broad : 
While my children down the hill 
Run and leap, and I sit still, — 
Through the silence, through the silence art Thou 
calling, rny God ? 

Through my husband's voice that prayeth, 
Though he knows not what he sayeth, 
Is it Thou who in Thy holy Word hast solemn 
words for me ? 



312 THE VOICE CALLING. 

And when lie clasps me fast, 
And smiles fondly o'er the past, 
And talks, hopeful, of the future — Lord, do I 
hear only Thee ? 



Not in terror nor in thunder 
Comes Thy voice, although it sunder 
Flesh from spirit, soul from body, human bliss 
from human pain : 
All the work that was to do, 
All the joys so sweet and new 
Which Thou shewed 5 st me in a vision — Moses- 
like — and hixTst again. 



From this Pisgah, lying humbled. 
The long desert where I stumbled 
And the fair plains I shall never reach, seem 
equal, clear and far : 



THE VOICE CALLING. 313 

On this mountain top of ease 
Thou wilt bury me in peace ; 
While my tribes march onward, onward, unto 
Canaan and war. 

In my boy's loud laughter ringing, 
In the sigh more soft than singing 
Of my baby girl that nestles up unto this mortal 
breast, 
After every voice most dear, 
Comes a whisper — " Rest not here." 
And the rest Thou art preparing, is it best, Lord, 
is it best ? 

" Lord, a little, little longer ! " 
Sobs the earth love, growing stronger : 
He will miss me, and go mourning through his 
solitary days. 
And heaven were scarcely heaven 



314 THE VOICE CALLING. 

If these lambs which Thou hast given 
Were to slip out of our keeping and be lost in 
the world's ways. 

Lord, it is not fear of dying, 
Nor an impious denying 
Of Thy will, which for evermore on earth, in 
heaven, be done : 
But the love that desperate clings 
Unto these my precious things 
In the beauty of the daylight and the glory of 
the sun. 

Ah, Thou still art calling, calling, 
With a soft voice unappalling ; 
And it vibrates in far circles through the ever- 
lasting years ; 
When Thou knockest, even so ! 
I will arise and go. — 
What, my little ones, more violets ? — Nay, be 
patient — mother hears. 



THE WREN'S NEST. 

I took the wren's nest ; — 

Heaven forgive me ! 
Its merry architects so small 
Had scarcely finish' d their wee hall, 
That empty still and neat and fair 
Hung idly in the summer air. 
The mossy walls, the dainty door, 
Where Love should enter and explore, 
And Love sit carolling outside, 
And Love within chirp multiplied ; — 

I took the wren's nest. — 

Heaven forgive me ! 

How many hours of happy pains 
Through early frosts and April rains, 
How many songs at eve and morn 
O'er springing grass and greening corn, 



316 the wren's nest. 

What labours hard through, sun and shade 
Before the pretty house was made ! 
One little minute, only one, 
And she '11 fly back, and find it — gone ! 

I took the wren's nest : 

Bird, forgive me ! 



Thou and thy mate, sans let, sans fear, 
Ye have before you all the year, 
And every wood holds nooks for you, 
In which to sing and build and woo ; 
One piteous cry of birdish pain — 
And ye 5 11 begin your life again, 
And quite forget the lost, lost home 
In many a busy home to come. — 
But I ? — Tour wee house keep I must 
Until it crumble into dust. 

I took the wren's nest : 

God forgive me ! 



CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Tune — " God rest ye, merry gentlemen. 55 

God rest ye, merry gentlemen, let nothing you 

dismay, 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on 

Christmas-day. 
The dawn rose red o'er Bethlehem, the stars 

shone through the grey, 
When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on 

Christmas- day. 

God rest ye, little children ; let nothing you 

affright, 
For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this 

happy night ; 



318 CHRISTMAS CAROL. 

Along the hills of Galilee the white flocks sleep- 
ing lay, 

When Christ, the Child of Nazareth, was born 
on Christmas-day. 

Grod rest ye, all good Christians ; upon this 

blessed morn 
The Lord of all good Christians was of a woman 

born: 
Now all your sorrows He doth heal, your sins 

He takes away ; 
For Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on 

Christmas-day. 



THE MOTHER'S VISITS. 

From the French. 

Long years ago she visited my chamber, 
Steps soft and slow, a taper in her hand ; 

Her fond kiss she laid upon my eye-lids, 
Fair as an angel from the unknown land : 

Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 

Mother, mother, watching over me. 

And yesternight I saw her cross my chamber, 
Soundless as light, a palm-branch in her hand ; 

Her mild eyes she bent upon my anguish, 
Calm as an angel from the blessed land ; 

Mother, mother, is it thou I see ? 

Mother, mother, art thou come for me ? 



A GERMAN STUDENT'S FUNERAL 
HYMN. 

" Thou shalt call, and I will answer Thee : Thou wilt have a 
desire to the work of Thine hands." 

With steady march across the daisy meadow, 
And by the churchyard wall we go ; 

But leave behind, beneath the linden shadow, 
One, who no more will rise and go : 

Farewell, our brother, here sleeping in dust, 

Till thou shalt wake again, wake with the just. 

Along the street where neighbour nods to neigh- 
bour, 

Along the busy street we throng, 
Once more to laugh, to live and love and labour, — 

But he will be remembered long : 



A GERMAN STUDENT'S FUNERAL HYMN. 321 

Sleep well, our brother, though sleeping in dust : 
Shalt thou not rise again — rise with the just ? 

Farewell, true heart and kindly hand, left lying 
Where wave the linden branches calm ; 

'Tis his to live, and ours to wait for dying, 
We win, while he has won, the palm ; 

Farewell, our brother ! But one day, we trust, 

Call — he will answer Thee, God of the just. 



21 



WESTWARD HO ! 



We should not sit us down and sigh, 
My girl, whose brow a fane appears, 

Whose stedfast eyes look royally 

Backwards and forwards o'er the years — 

The long long years of conquered time, 
The possible years unwon, that slope 

Before us in the pale sublime 

Of lives that have more faith than hope. 

We dare not sit us down and dream 
Fond dreams, as idle children do : 

My forehead owns too many a seam, 

And tears have worn their channels through 






WESTWARD HO ! 323 

Your poor thin cheeks, which now I take 
'Twixt my two hands, caressing. Dear, 

A little sunshine for my sake ! 

Although we ? re far on in the year. 

Though all our violets, sweet ! are dead, 
The primrose lost from fields we knew, 

Who knows what harvests may be spread 
For reapers brave like me and you ? 

"Who knows what bright October suns 
May light up distant valleys mild, 

Where, as our pathway downward runs, 
We see Joy meet us like a child — 

Who, sudden, by the road-side stands, 
To kiss the travellers' weary brows, 

And lead them through the twilight lands 
Safelv unto their Father's house. 



324 WESTWARD HO ! 

So, we '11 not dream, nor look back, dear ! 

But march, right on, content and bold, 
To where our life sets, heavenly clear, 

Westward, behind the hills of gold. 



THE END. 



JOHN CHILDS AND SON, PRINTERS. 



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